All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. There was all the knavery, and more than all the drollery of a Spanish picaroon in the laughing eyes of the English apprentice; and, with a little more warmth and sunniness of skin on the side of the latter, the resemblance between them would have been complete. It was wonderful. Nobody can trust you. Thames Darrell is—" "My husband nicknames him Thames," interrupted Mrs. “I heard the clock strike as I crossed the square,” she answered.
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