" "Poor soul!" ejaculated her son. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. " "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 pointed across the road. Wild will hang me. She was at the end of girlhood and on the eve of a woman’s crowning experience. The turning of the key startled her, but she did not see how she could make an objection.
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