Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. Gods! what it must be to pour out strong, splendid verse—mighty lines! mighty lines! If I do, Ann Veronica, it will be you. He can't play cards, either, when he's sober. “My dear Anna,” he answered. Taking the direction pointed out, he rode off. “We can be alone?” She inquired.
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