"What a very remarkable thing it is," he observed, applying to his snuff-box, "that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,"—Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he had been so,—"should turn out to be alive after all. It's my way when I'm ruffled. There was one letter. She was inclined to think that perhaps for a girl the converse of his method was the case; an older man, a man beyond the range of anything “nonsensical,” was, perhaps, the most interesting sort of friend one could meet. I was—I was a corespondent. She had never before heard the noise of firecrackers, and in the beginning the sputtering racket caused her to wince. The light would betray us. ‘Ah. ‘I would read your body,’ he whispered, and lifted her fingers to his lips. “Excuse me a moment. She had removed her hat and utterly disarranged her already unruly black locks by running agitated fingers through them.
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