" "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. She chose to hold her nose. There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. She missed them already. ” “Call it what you like,” Anna answered. "More slang," he said. “There is some mystery about you both,” he exclaimed, with sudden earnestness. The rainstorm, short-lived, began to subside. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago.
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