Stanley’s pace slackened. Am I mistaken? Is your heart mine?" "It is—it is; and has ever been," replied Winifred, falling upon his neck. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. They bounced without merriment over bumpy Roman roads, and by the time they arrived she was extremely nauseous. “Why not? They tell me that London is impossible till after ten, and I want my first impressions to be favourable. ’ A strangled sob escaped her as his thumb dug cruelly into the soft flesh of her wrist.
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