The signs of the shops were carried to incredible distances. Fritz flailed against his mother wildly, crying generous tears. Of a certainty, she also was imbecile. They entered a hansom and turned on to the Embankment. The man looked as though he would have liked to deny it, but could not. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. The flowers and turf, a wild strawberry, a rare butterfly, and suchlike little intimate things had become more interesting than mountains. “You see, I will take your arm.
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