You forget all the mass of training and tradition and instinct that go to make him a tolerable master. " "If it were so, he would have great reason to be proud of the relationship, truly," observed Wood, shrugging his shoulders. She addressed him in a tone of puzzlement. His frame was wasted, and slightly bent; his eyes were hollow, his complexion haggard, and his beard, which had remained unshorn during his hasty journey, was perfectly white. Too much, perhaps. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out.
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