Yes, I can readily believe it. Tell him the truth, Annabel. The expression was wholly different. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. “Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself. "Do not despair, my sweet soul," said Wood, in a soothing tone. It shall be done as you direct. I suppose I was a little idiotic—I don’t think we either of us mentioned the future, but it was arranged that I should go the next afternoon and have tea with her. "Oh gracious! he's lost. We'll celebrate that check, and let the rest of the world go hang.
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