A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. Don’t you think that the shade of my hair is lovely?” “There is nothing particular the matter with the shade,” Anna answered, “but it is not nearly so becoming as before you touched it. Were such a thing to happen again, I'd never let Mr. Perhaps, as you say, I do not really care—but I cannot do it. To the poor carpenter it seemed an endless distance. Wood could not avoid making a slight shuffling sound.
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