Wood's dwelling,—a plain, substantial, commodious farm-house. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. He knew that tragedy was as blind as justice, that it struck the child and the grown-up impartially. "That's tremendous!" he cried. If he ran less risk of being blown over, he stood a much greater chance of being washed off, or stifled. The real ‘Alcide’,” she wound up with a faint smile across the table at him, “is here.
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