Wood caught hold of Jack's leg, and dragged him off the bench. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. “Michelle, I think that you are the victim of an extremely overactive imagination.
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