“May I enquire,” he asked smoothly, “in what way my appearance contributes to your amusement? If there is a joke I should like to share it. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. I suppose that’s the gist of the whole thing. It was just upon the stroke of nine as he entered the Lodge, and Mr. ‘I am not a person, Marthe. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart.
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