“Forgive me,” he decided to say at last, and his voice had a little quiver of emotion, and he laid his hand on hers upon her knee. “It’s like Troy!” said a voice of rapture. Sheila pounded the kitchen table, causing the bell jar with the silk flowers to tip over and roll to the floor. Alarmed by these prognostications of a storm, and feeling too much exhausted from his late severe treatment to proceed further on foot, Wood endeavoured to find a tavern where he might warm and otherwise refresh himself. He advanced a step towards her. "Your son is a lad of spirit, Mr.
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