Perhaps she was. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. ‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound. You want me to be clean. "Do not despair, my sweet soul," said Wood, in a soothing tone. She took his hand in hers. When younger, and in better health, she must have been eminently lovely; and there were still the remains of great beauty about her.
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