The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table. The light!—the light!" Astounded at his cries, Thames sprang towards him. It moved a trifle, stepping back and lifting an arm to rub the sleeve against the glass. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. That is not reasonable. "Come to my arms, Thames! Oh! dear! Oh! dear!" To repeat the questions and congratulations which now ensued, or describe the extravagant joy of the carpenter, who, after he had hugged his adopted son to his breast with such warmth as almost to squeeze the breath from his body, capered around the room, threw his wig into the empty fire-grate, and committed various other fantastic actions, in order to get rid of his superfluous satisfaction—to describe the scarcely less extravagant raptures of his spouse, or the more subdued, but not less heartfelt delight of Winifred, would be a needless task, as it must occur to every one's imagination. It was not possible.
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