“Now, there, there. But it was of no avail. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. I've opened the case of books. Oh, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. " "Let me touch you, then; let me feel if you are really flesh and blood," cried the poor maniac, creeping towards him on all fours. And as he gave back the portfolio to Sir Rowland he contrived, unobserved, to slip the precious document into his sleeve, and from thence into his pocket. I know now that I was mistaken. His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient.
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