It did not cheer or fortify him with false courage and recklessness; it simply enveloped him in a mist of unreality. "You don't recollect me, I presume?" premised the stranger, taking a seat. His literary instincts were reviving. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane. Wood's favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before. She came to adore them.
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