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And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. Keeping to the shadow of the house, he crept forward until he could see better without, he hoped, being seen. Oh, Heavens; that I should have ever indulged a hope of happiness while that terrible man lives!" "Compose yourself, Joan," said Wood; "all will yet be well. By the way, what did he say when he was out of his head?" "The word 'Fool. It is what I have done.
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