“There I can’t help,” said Capes. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. You may have to carry them further and longer than you think. Feel for the lock, and prize it open,—you don't need to be told how. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly.
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