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” “I suppose all men,” said Ann Veronica, in a tone of detached criticism, “get some such entanglement. There were all varieties of bird-life known in these latitudes, from the bird of paradise down to the tiny scarlet-beaked love-birds. It would be useless to tell her to go back, even heartless; and yet he could not advise her to go on, blindly, not knowing whether her aunt was dead or alive. There was nothing to be got out of the man. He was chained to the ground, but started up at their approach. Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. She laughed altogether in her old manner. ” Anna was not late, but her heart sank within her when she entered the drawingroom. Jack's life hangs on your determination.
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