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The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. “Please forgive me. " "I hope such a thing never will happen again, my dear," observed Wood, mildly, "but, when it does, it will be time to consider what course we ought to pursue. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. Pity you aren’t under my command.
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