Every window, from the groundfloor to the garret had its occupant, and the roofs were covered with spectators. From me. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. He kissed her once on the lips with a passion of which, during all their days of married life, he had given no sign. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections.
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