"Don't weep, my love," replied the lady, straining him still more closely to her. He had tossed an honoured name into the mire; he required no prison bars to accentuate this misery. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. He'll mend, I hope. ‘And certainly I wish that Joan will come with us. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. .
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