"Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. I have it on my conscience that I offended you—” “Offended me when?” “I’ve been haunted by the memory of you. He took a handful of the gravelly mud, with which the platform was covered, and threw the small pebbles, one by one, towards the gleam. But there was no feeling of remorse; there was only the sensation of exaltation.
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