His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. “Don’t befool me any more,” he answered, almost roughly. With great difficulty, Wood forced a path through the ruins. “What are you doing?” He cried. But if his frame was immature, his looks were not so. Come back with me to-night. The tears were welling over now, but her voice was steady.
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