"Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. She then dried her eyes, and laying her child gently upon the floor, knelt down beside him. " "A short man, isn't he, about your height, Sir,—with a yellow beard, and a face as sly as a fox's?" "Hem!" replied Wood, coughing slightly to conceal a smile; "the description's not amiss. Essentially the talk was a mixture of fragments of sentences heard, of passages read, or arguments indicated rather than stated, and all of it was served in a sauce of strange enthusiasm, thin yet intense. ” He rose from his chair, and walked restlessly up and down the room. “For instance?” She smiled.
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