"And now," said Thames, (for we must still preserve the name,) "you will no longer defer my happiness. Lucy had passed the house once on the sidewalk, on a rare day when he was shoveling snow. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least.
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