He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. He was always deceived by these rustlings which promised wind and seldom fulfilled that promise. The devastations, however, were speedily made good, and, in two years more, it was finished. “Oh, Lucy. “I hope you realize,” he went on, in a lower and less assured tone, “that I am in earnest—very much in earnest. Surely Capes was different.
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