It was fortunate that by this time Winifred had so far recovered, as to be able to afford her father the best and only solace that, under the circumstances, he could have received,—her personal attentions. Puffy blue curtains dressed every oakstained window. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. ‘Left to yourself, my girl, you may not have any affairs. The cook tried to ply her with spiced meat and fish soup.
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