"Come! I see the storm has blown over," cried Winifred, brightening up. Something that is born anew each time we meet, and pines when we are separated. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. But me, I am going to England.
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