" "Devil take the key!" ejaculated Wood. About many of these houses hung a mysterious taint as of something weakly and commonly and dustily evil; the women who negotiated the rooms looked out through a friendly manner as though it was a mask, with hard, defiant eyes. But the world didn’t do that. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. I will no longer be a burthen to those upon whom I have no claim, but compassion. She was with these movements—akin to them, she felt it at times intensely—and yet something eluded her.
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