He sat down. She licked his neck, which put him over the top. There is so little abandon, so little real joyousness. " With this, he attacked her vigorously in his turn. But a woman’s life is all chance. He drew compellingly upon his new characters to keep him out of this melancholy channel; but they ebbed and ebbed; he could not hold them. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. Then they rode off at speed. “I think we are growing sensible,” he said. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. Cathy's eyebrows perked up.
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