It is Thérèse. I loved her beyond anything in heaven or on earth—to idolatry. "Vell," he growled, addressing Quilt, "you know who's here, I suppose?" "To be sure I do," replied Quilt; "my noble friend, the Marquis of Slaughterford. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. I could not love you else. ‘Small wonder in a way that he found hisself consolation elsewhere. I can fairly understand Ruth; but you…!" "Have you ever been so lonely that the soul of you cried in anguish? Twentyfour hours a day to think in, alone?… Perhaps I did not want to go mad from loneliness. Over an old crazy bedstead was thrown a squalid, patchwork counterpane; and upon the counterpane lay a black hood and scarf, a pair of bodice of the cumbrous form in vogue at the beginning of the last century, and some other articles of female attire. “It is you alone, Nigel, who have saved me from being an old maid.
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