“It’s jolly,” he said, “to feel you have come to me. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. She had been fighting down this thought for days: that Hoddy did not care, that he did not love her, that he had mistaken a vagary of the mind for a substance, and now regretted what he had done— married a girl who was not his equal in anything. I next proceeded to Jenny Bunch's, the Ship, in Trig Lane—there I got the same answer.
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