"The danger's past," whispered Bess. Your life is like a funeral March. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. "Don't mention it," returned Wood, in the conciliatory tone of one who admits he has been in the wrong; "your explanation is perfectly satisfactory. How provoking!" she added, pretending to rummage her pockets; "one never can find a thing when one wants it.
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