Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. "It won't do, widow," said he, drawing near her, while she shrank from his approach, "so you may spare your breath. Know that I love you, that I will always love you. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. If only you knew what this means to me!" "We do, lad," replied McClintock, gravely.
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