But, in spite of his general insensibility to such matters, Quilt could not help commenting upon the delicious perfume wafted from the numerous flower-beds past which they were driving. He had not taken many steps when he perceived Quilt Arnold in the upper gallery, with a lamp in his hand. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. Their heads touched again, their arms tightened. “Forgive me,” he said. He returned her to her door at a decent hour, well before 10:00. And there was another matter. Trenchard was tempted to examine the contents of some of these cases, but a closer inspection made him recoil from them in disgust.
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