” It was a tiny little room, daintily furnished, individual in its quaint colouring, and the masses of perfumed flowers set in strange and unexpected places. Instead, her husband was probably wise. “You poor child!” he said; “don’t you see the infinite folly of these proceedings? Think! Think of the love and affection you abandon! Think of your aunt, a second mother to you. Here were the passionate lovers! What their past had been he neither cared nor craved to know. Her evident terror and distress reinforced the tale he told. Hill, Meysey Hill.
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