She had told Emile. Already she missed all of her fine things, her linens and leather bound books. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. ‘I wish you joy of the wench. "Take it," cried Wood, holding the infant towards her; "take it, and fly. Tell him about the island, the coconut dance, the wooden tom-toms; read to him. She had thought to wear it now, since she must look more the demoiselle. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park.
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