"A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband. He was leaning against a window frame, his hat in his hand. You will torture yourself and torture her all through life; but in the end she will pour the wine of her faith into a sound chalice. See what a horrible rascal you've let loose upon the world!" "I'm sure, mother," rejoined Winifred, "if any one was likely to feel resentment, I was; for no one could be more frightened. Retribution has a queer way of acting sometimes. She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. That is my way, my dear. “It’s—private. Wood the carpenter. So I've grown hard—outside.
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