The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing. She was sore with the perplexities of her preposterous position. From this perturbed state he was roused by thoughts of his mother, and fancying he heard her gentle voice urging him on to fresh exertion, he started up. Am I mistaken? Is your heart mine?" "It is—it is; and has ever been," replied Winifred, falling upon his neck.
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