But she threw a verbal bombshell into the spinsters' camp. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. She seemed smitten with a paroxysm of fear. Old pupil.
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