I am guilty practically of the impertinence of coming to ask you whether I misunderstood your sister. “Wild horses—not if they have all the mounted police in London—shan’t keep me out. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. Lost, stolen, or strayed, the Young Person!. I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years. Kneebone, I came hither as your guest.
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