" CHAPTER XIX. Wanted her out of the way because he had been afraid of her, afraid of himself! He, at fifty-four! Then into this void poured a flaming anger, a blind and unreasoning anger. Nothing but the publicity of the place and the recollection of that terrible constituency kept him from attempting some perfectly respectful but unmistakable evidence of his sympathy. In each corner stood a stout square post reaching to the ceiling. " "I will yield it to no one but its mother," answered Wood. "Rowland," she said, in a faint voice, "I have not many minutes to live. See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream.
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