"I was just going," said Thames. He turned his eyes and stared at Miss Garvice like one who wakes from a reverie, and then got up and strolled down the laboratory toward his refuge, the preparation-room. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese. " And before she could be prevented, she lifted up the cloth, and disclosed Shotbolt. You know you do, Annabel. I tell you what, Thames," he added, flinging himself carelessly into a chair, "I'd give my right hand,—and that's no light offer for a carpenter's 'prentice,—if that little minx were half as fond of me as she is of you. She addresses you as the Flower of the Lotus, as the Resplendent Moonbeam. Mere formality. ‘Quite mad, nuns are. This is not what I want.
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