It opened and a nun’s head popped out. “I do,” he answered. She knew that to expect more now was like anticipating a gold-mine in the garden. A few minutes later Sir John left the room. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. You know they say, as, indeed, I have just quoted already, that all bad poetry is written in a state of emotion, but I have no doubt that this is true of bad offers of marriage.
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