He was a manly man, free from any strong maternal strain, and he had loved his dark-eyed, dainty bright-colored, and active little wife with a real vein of passion in his sentiment. “What nonsense is this? What raving! My dear child, you DO live, you DO exist! You have this home. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. But at least it gave her more time. A little Cockney recovered it, and made ridiculous attempts to get to her and replace it. I believe I am getting impudent.
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