"I don't think he would," acquiesced the carpenter. The train, meantime, had passed Marylebone Lane, when it again paused for a moment, at Jack's request, near the door of a public-house called the City of Oxford. She padded up the stairs to the bedroom, finding that her sheets had been changed with a fresh pillow case to welcome her weary head. There’s something—puppyish in a man’s usual attitude to women.
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