“Then I don’t take this as final. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. “It’s either now or never,” she said to herself. Her soft brown eyes, inherited from Larry, warmed an already pretty face. Creeping along quickly on his hands and knees, he found the entrance to a covered drain, into which he crept. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones.
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