With a view to raise recruits for his corps, the warlike woollen-draper started for Lancashire, under the colour of a journey on business. 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. “It was a bad day for me,” he said, speaking slowly and painfully.
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