I mean—I mean to do what I can. . But she made no answer. Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. But here was new music, tender and kindly and whimsical, that first roved to and fro in the mind and then cuddled up in the heart. .
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