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” She was frightened—his anger always did frighten her—and in her resolve to conceal her fright she carried a queen-like dignity to what she felt even at the time was a preposterous pitch. "The night before last, Mr. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. Mr. I want to be whatever I can to you. ” The girl on the lounge drew a long sobbing breath. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up.
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