"Women must have their wills while they live, since they can make none when they die," observed Wood, as he imprinted a kiss of reconciliation on the plump hand of his consort;—a sentiment to the correctness of which the party chiefly interested graciously vouchsafed her assent. But she must stop him getting away. I have always managed to survive, haven’t I?” She was eager to stop talking about her parents. She mentally reprimanded herself to alter her own visage so as not to appear depraved. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory.
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