It was fortunate that by this time Winifred had so far recovered, as to be able to afford her father the best and only solace that, under the circumstances, he could have received,—her personal attentions. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. In each pause she could sense his growing trepidation. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope.
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