"What is this?" she wanted to know. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. He renewed his supplications to Sharples, but with no better success than heretofore; and the greater part of the night was passed by him and the poor widow, whose anxiety, if possible, exceeded his own, in the most miserable state imaginable. The wedding procession passed on, and the cynical rabble poured in behind. ‘Always he is busy about my affairs. Sheppard. Finally she decided that even for an hotel she must look round, and that meanwhile she would “book” her luggage at Waterloo. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. ’ That arrested her. ‘In love? I? Don’t be ridiculous. As he hesitated, unable to make up his mind what to do for the best, a heavy rumbling on the cobbles penetrated his absorption. “Monsieur would dine! It was very good! And Madame, of course?” with a low bow.
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