Am I mistaken? Is your heart mine?" "It is—it is; and has ever been," replied Winifred, falling upon his neck. Entering the workshop, he found the blacksmith occupied in heating the tire of a cart wheel. Its walled heaved with black mildew and sea-salt. ‘I don’t think you need do that, Melusine—if I may call you so. ’ She grimaced. Even given that he was hopelessly enamoured of the wench, a fact which was obvious to the meanest intelligence.
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