" "Is she alive?" repeated the widow. Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal. She sat in a chair in the parlour and regarded the darkening sky through the small casement window. He went on with his song, accompanying it with the most ridiculous grimaces: "When years were gone by, she began to rue Her love for the gentleman, (meaning you!) 'I slighted the journeyman fond,' quoth she, 'But where is my gallant of high degree? Where! where! Oh! where is my gallant of high degree?' Ho! ho! ho!" "What are you doing here!" demanded Thames.
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