The slight smile that played upon Winifred's lips seemed to say that she was not quite so sure. In the grate were some charred fragments of a marriage certificate. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. You have been to see your sister, of course. " "But, do hear what it is," rejoined Winifred; "you know I'm shortly to be united to your nephew,—that is," she added, blushing, "when he can be married by his right name, for my father won't consent to it before.
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