A wedding procession turned the corner. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. I want you to be my wife. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjIyNi4xNzcuMjE2IC0gMTktMDUtMjAyNCAwNjozNDowNiAtIDQ3OTA2OTUxNw==
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