They walked two by two to the car, looking the part of 267 two weary spouses supporting their drunken mates after an all-night bender. That was the true marvel of it. Wood did think of it, and groaned aloud. Every word you utter puzzles me. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. "Sign this," he said, pushing the document towards Sir Rowland. They used to marry us off at seventeen, rush us into things before we had time to protest. I really must leave you now. I've a couple of kinchens in yonder rattler, whom I wish to place under old Sharples's care. Stanley allowed his paper to drop a little, and scrutinized the hats and brows of their three fellow-travellers.
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