There was—a service. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. ’ Lucy giggled. ’ ‘But I can’t leave you, miss. . "Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. " "A short man, isn't he, about your height, Sir,—with a yellow beard, and a face as sly as a fox's?" "Hem!" replied Wood, coughing slightly to conceal a smile; "the description's not amiss.
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