You must forgive the poet’s license I take. “You were never born,” he declared, “to follow the well worn roads. All of us were fussy, colicky babies from what she tells me. If you had any idea what depths people have sunken to as you reside safely in this high fortress, you would search your soul to find the mote of charity left there. I am far too much the gentleman. ” She looked at him quizzically and shrugged. Come down, I say, instantly, or I'll make you. " "At your peril, sirrah!" cried Wood.
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