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He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. Wood, whose loss I shall ever deplore. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. "You poor child!" said Prudence. I have strength enough to drag myself there, and I do not want to return.
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