A wedding procession turned the corner. "I believe he's gone," he said, returning to Jonathan. The walls rocked, the footrail of the bed wavered, and the girl's head had the nebulosity of a composite photograph. "Vell, vell," growled Sharples, after he had listened to the other's remonstrances, "it shall be done. "But, take my advice, and keep out of Sir Rowland's way, or you'll get the poor lady into trouble as well as me.
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