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" "I hope not," replied Wild. He waved to her. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. Sanguine they were not.
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