"Married!—no—no," replied the woollen-draper. "No; I don't think I'd laugh. He turned back at once. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. "God in Heaven!" he cried, "the floor is covered with blood. You might even tire of me by then, you know. But you must come this way now. Wood's.
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