Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. His struggles were so violent, that, being a man of tremendous strength, it was some time before they could master him, and it required the combined efforts of all the four partners to put him into irons. Wood fared still worse. He thrust out a rhetorical hand. It was too good to be true.
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