She fell into another slumber, one which was more like a blackout. Wood, whose loss I shall ever deplore. "You poor child!" said Prudence. ’ ‘You should be happy that you are not dead,’ she retorted, but with a diminution of the venom and fright in her voice. We looked upon you, my dear Sir John, with reverence, almost with awe. “That,” she answered, “is far easier to believe. Why had he glanced up—quite in that way?.
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