YOU are not going out, John? said Mrs. Wilkinson, looking up from
the work she had just taken into her hands. There was a smile on
her lips; but her eyes told, plainly enough, that a cloud was upon
her heart. Mrs. Wilkinson was sitting by a small work-table, in a
neatly furnished room. It was evening, and a shaded lamp burned
upon the table. Mr. Wilkinson, who had been reading, was standing
on the floor, having thrown down his book and risen up hastily, as
if a sudden purpose had been formed in his mind.
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