Wood's anxiety to please her distinguished guests speedily displayed itself in a very plentiful, if not very dainty repast. “Vee,” she said, “come home. I wrote three letters yesterday and tore them up. It was horrible, but what could she do? She meant to live her own life, and he meant, with contempt and insults, to prevent her. With this view, he hurried to the spot where he had left the post-chaise, and found it drawn up at the road-side, the postilion dismounted, and in charge of a couple of farming-men.
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