But I'll never part with your irons. And the woollen-draper departed. "What a very remarkable thing it is," he observed, applying to his snuff-box, "that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,"—Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he had been so,—"should turn out to be alive after all. A married man!—the kind I've never been able to lure down there! But keep your temper in check. Still, her face never betrayed this distraction. But we've got to cook up some kind of a story to protect her. She had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat.
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