"My dear child, don't talk like that," he says, nervously: "you're done up, you know. Come to bed.",
Now will he seize this blessed opportunity, and, laden with the spoils of war, approach her dwelling (already she is "she"), and triumphantly, albeit humbly, lay the fern at her feet, and so perchance gain the right to bask for a few minutes in the sunshine of her presence.,
"That? Oh, that was the bride, Mrs. Rodney," replies he. "She is lovely, if you like.".
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