" "Poor child!" muttered Trenchard, abstractedly; "the whole scene upon the river is passing before me. And look down, so. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor.
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