"Heaven have mercy on his soul!" ejaculated Wood. “Not possible. ” He stuttered. “It’s the warming up of the year, the coming of the light mornings, the way in which everything begins to run about and begin new things. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. " Winifred looked as if she could not indulge such a supposition for a single moment.
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