Am I mistaken? Is your heart mine?" "It is—it is; and has ever been," replied Winifred, falling upon his neck. Wood!" exclaimed Jack, in surprise. ” “But I didn’t lose it that way, did I?” She grew hysterical. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. There must be something we can do.
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