He moved, after quiet intervals, with a quick little movement, and ever and again stroked his small mustache and coughed a selfconscious cough. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. "Plague on't!" added he: "I never meant to take your babby from you. When you've admitted him, steal into the room, hide yourself, and don't move till I utter the words, 'You've a long journey before you. ’ She paused, holding her nurse’s eyes. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love.
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