"Weep on, reprobate," cried the carpenter, a little softened. Perhaps he truly meant it – perhaps there was a force within him that could withstand the hardships of existing past a mortal lifetime. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. “What’s the objection?” “I suppose she ought to know?” said Gwen to her mother, trying to alter the key of the conversation. "By all means," returned Wood; "don't delay an instant.
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