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ToC On the night of Friday, the 26th of November, 1703, and at the hour of eleven, the door of a miserable habitation, situated in an obscure quarter of the Borough of Southwark, known as the Old Mint, was opened; and a man, with a lantern in his hand, appeared at the threshold. I received a telegram, as you know, during dinner. He was sitting back from the table now, with one arm over the back of his green chair and the other resting on the little table. A door in this house opened upon the yard. The carpet was a quiet drugget and not excessively worn, and the bed in the corner was covered by a white quilt. “For me,” Manning went on, “this isn’t final. “This has all the clean freshness of spring and youth,” said Capes; “it is love with the down on; it is like the glitter of dew in the sunlight to be lovers such as we are, with no more than one warm kiss between us. How dreary it all looks.
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