Another door was next opened, and, preceded by the ordinary, with the sacred volume in his hand, the prisoner entered the room. He was so seldom wrong. But she was not there. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation.
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