Wood did think of it, and groaned aloud. I love you all the more for the streak of sheer devil in you. “I might return the compliment, Courtlaw,” he answered, “by asking why the devil you come lurching on to the pavement like a drunken man. Spit of your mother. The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. "Something worse, I fear," Wood replied. “Well, you know. What is he—English or American?" "American. Just as the attendants were preparing to lower the corpse into the earth, Jack fell on his knees beside the coffin, uttering the wildest exclamations of grief, reproaching himself with the murder of his mother, and invoking the vengeance of Heaven on his own head. The warm September sun fell strongly on this part of the grounds, uninterrupted by trees, its light bouncing off the glass in the mansion’s walls.
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