You'll never be guided by me—never!" "Indeed, my love, you're entirely mistaken," returned the carpenter, endeavouring to deprecate his wife's rising resentment by the softest looks, and the meekest deportment. See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream. He sat down. It was horrible, but what could she do? She meant to live her own life, and he meant, with contempt and insults, to prevent her. But kill me rather than commit this outrage.
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