Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. Hey. It’s well hidden, miss. She could not help but swoon a little. Other phrases returned now, like echoes. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it. She had unaccountable gleams of sympathy with and liking for him.
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