There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. Wood, now more buxom and more gorgeously arrayed than ever,—as well as a young and beautiful female, in whom he was at no loss to recognise the carpenter's daughter. “How shall I get my luggage out of the house?.
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