He had bled everywhere, but she had struck when the opportunity was ripe. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. Opening her large black eyes, she fixed them upon him for a moment with a mixture of terror and loathing, and then averted her gaze. He drew a little breath of relief. “But it’s a long business. Spurlock—for that's his real name—were married at high noon. The houses on Snow Hill were thronged, like those in Old Bailey. Clotilde’s stunning green eyes were reflected in the gazes of the tender young children, but their faces had been hollow and sunken, their hair matted, and their clothing in bad need of repair. That’s my opinion, if you ask me. “I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said.
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