" "Anything, my dear," replied Wood, "What is it?" "Bury us together in one grave in Willesden churchyard. Whether they are loved or unloved has no bearing upon this desire to test their wings, to try this new adventure, to take this leap into the dark. I go back about once a year. " "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. She is, in her way, a dear. “And you?” “Same thing. " "Nay, if you're bent upon this folly," observed Wild, who appeared to have his own reasons for humouring the lad, "I shan't hinder you. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. White is proud of her drawing-room evenings. Stanley lost patience.
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