Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears. He remained standing by the stem of the proa, his glance roving investigatingly. "What is it?" demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took up a glass. It occurred to her that it was absurd and wrong to be so continuously thinking of one engrossing topic, and she made a strenuous effort to force her mind to other questions. It is dull—deadly dull.
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