I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled. “And we will sail that splendor wide, From day to day together, From isle to isle of happiness Through year’s of God’s own weather. It was Ennison, who loomed up through the shadows. “I suppose all life is an affair of chances. Wood, in a taunting tone. She marvelled at his apparent imperviousness to the heat. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda.
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