It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. “You told me that in the Zoological Gardens. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. The slight smile that played upon Winifred's lips seemed to say that she was not quite so sure. But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader. ‘Tchah! So you’re the whelp’s girl, are you? Suppose you’ve nothing but that villainous French in your tongue. All these circumstances,—slight in themselves, but powerful in their effect,—touched the heart of the widowed carpenter, and added to his depression. Another day of nonsuccess would mean many disagreeable things. “There’s no end of things I’d like to talk over with you.
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