" "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows. "Your master wants a few table-spoons, child," said Mrs. I am come to rescue you from Wild's violence. .
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