He dropped the key on the counterpane. " "A young fellow who thinks he's in love, when he has only been reading too much. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. "Saved!" "Ay, ay, it's all bob, my covey! You're safe enough, that's certain!" responded the Minters, baying, yelping, leaping, and howling around him like a pack of hounds when the huntsman is beating cover; "but, where are the lurchers?" "Who?" asked Wood. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. The thought allured him, and therein lay the danger. She noted the dank hair on his forehead, the sweat of revolting nature. “Really,” she said.
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