Winds returned, the gardens withered, and roses would not bloom. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. From his wallet he brought forth a yellow letter. “Of course it is okay!” Cathy’s voice rose in volume and in pitch.
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