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Wood did think of it, and groaned aloud. She looked steadfastly out. Down on me luck, I was, and they took me in. I was the last on board. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. Why ain’t you gorn? Seems to me I had ought to arrest you. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. Not that it would make any difference if he was alive still.
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