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Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand. " "Stand off, Poll," rejoined the woollen-draper; "I don't want to hurt you. Don’t think it was anything better than fever—or a bit beautiful. The Wastrel did not relish this. In Darrell's open features, frankness and honour were written in legible characters; while, in Jack's physiognomy, cunning and knavery were as strongly imprinted. He was interesting and inconclusive, and the original papers to which he referred her discursive were at best only suggestive. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. You could walk the city streets and with every blink you could take in a new sight of beauty so great that your heart would weep for it.

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