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V. Perplexity among Honest People

           

           Theycouldonlyhaveleftthehouseinoneway,bythebackwindow;andthiswasopen.

           Wildevelaughedtohimself,remainedamomentthinking,andidlyreturnedtothefrontroom.Herehisglancefelluponabottleofwinewhichstoodonthemantelpiece.“Ah—oldDowden!”hemurmured;andgoingtothekitchendoorshouted,“IsanybodyherewhocantakesomethingtooldDowden?”

           Therewasnoreply.Theroomwasempty,theladwhoactedashisfactotumhavinggonetobed.Wildevecamebackputonhishat,tookthebottle,andleftthehouse,turningthekeyinthedoor,fortherewasnoguestattheinntonight.AssoonashewasontheroadthelittlebonfireonMistoverKnapagainmethiseye.

           “Stillwaiting,areyou,mylady?”hemurmured.

           However,hedidnotproceedthatwayjustthen;butleavingthehilltotheleftofhim,hestumbledoveraruttedroadthatbroughthimtoacottagewhich,likeallotherhabitationsontheheathatthishour,wasonlysavedfrombeingvisiblebyafaintshinefromitsbedroomwindow.ThishousewasthehomeofOllyDowden,thebesom-maker,andheentered.

           Thelowerroomwasindarkness;butbyfeelinghiswayhefoundatable,whereonheplacedthebottle,andaminutelateremergedagainupontheheath.Hestoodandlookednortheastattheundyinglittlefire—highupabovehim,thoughnotsohighasRainbarrow.

           Wehavebeentoldwhathappenswhenawomandeliberates;andtheepigramisnotalwaysterminablewithwoman,providedthatonebeinthecase,andthatafairone

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