But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. At the present moment she was living in a world of her own creation, a carnival of brave men and fair women, characters out of the tales she had so newly read for the first time. "I'll go to her directly," said Wood, bustling towards the door. "Well?" he whispered. "One word before we part, adorable girl— only one," he continued, detaining her.
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