"Hear me, Jack!" shrieked his mother. He hated horizons. Wood," she continued, with a sudden change of tone, and convulsively clutching the carpenter's arm, "promise it me. He saw her young and graceful back as she descended from the carriage, severely ignoring him, and recalled a glimpse he had of her face, bright and serene, as his train ran out of Wimbledon. I’ve been wondering where she got her dogged will, and that hot-headed adventurous spirit, for it wasn’t from either Mary or Nicholas, that’s sure.
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