She flushed with desire and happiness, her husband had returned to her and all would be aright. I care not. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. She descended the stairs, and found herself at last in the street—alone. She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them. You see, I kidnapped poor Jack and made him promise to send me word if you went careering off anywhere.
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