Somebody tricked you back yonder—baited you for spite. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. What was the matter with the dress? She could not see. Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. He looked at her for a moment in a puzzled sort of way. You’re NOT to go. Living, he knew that he would never send that letter.
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