" "And I trust you will never have occasion to weep again, my poor soul," replied Wood, setting down his lantern, and brushing a few drops from his eyes, "unless it be tears of joy. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. The girl was pretty, and apparently a lady. Blood, they say, won't come out. “Shhh. .
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