Wood uttered something like an imprecation. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows. All the fury had left her, swamped by an inexplicable flood of warmth. Mr. Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow.
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