“I will send you a copy,” Mr. " "Not now, my love—not now," entreated Wood. “He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know. No, let us dine here, and then go and have our coffee on the boulevards. Her breath came fast in little sobbing pants. I had gone further than I meant to—with some Englishmen. She looked about, watching a massive green storm cloud building in the west. My only love is for my poor lost son. On some insane score she fancied she had to state her case in verse.
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