out of the ten or twelve people one meets in a month not only say but feel and assume a thing, it is very hard not to fall into the belief that the thing is so. " "I tell 'ee what, landlord," observed the old sailor, quietly replenishing his pipe from a huge pewter tobacco-box, as the waterman and Wood quitted the house, "you've said good-b'ye to your friend. Who's the lucky boy, Lucy?\" Lucy looked at her slippered feet. Life is so good. His fears supplied him with unwonted vigour. He saw himself retreating from barricade to barricade, Ruth always advancing, perfectly oblivious of the terror she inspired.
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