" "Not now, my love—not now," entreated Wood. It frightened her to behold her heart and mind thus laid bare; but the chapter following would reassure her. Ill-drawn, without method or sense of proportion, you have put wonderful things on to canvas, have drawn them out of yourself, notwithstanding your mechanical inefficiency. ” She shook her head, snapping out of her reverie. You are your nephew's executioner, or he is yours. . I couldn't accept anything from you.
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