After an affectionate parting with Winifred, Thames was conducted by the carpenter to his sleeping apartment—a comfortable cosy chamber; such a one, in short, as can only be met with in the country, with its dimity-curtained bed, its sheets fragrant of lavender, its clean white furniture, and an atmosphere breathing of freshness. "You are an angel," she cried, with a look beaming with delight. “I believe,” he said, “that you mean me to be Prime Minister. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes.
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