“Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up. He saw rifts in clouds—sunshine. With this view, he hurried to the spot where he had left the post-chaise, and found it drawn up at the road-side, the postilion dismounted, and in charge of a couple of farming-men. Wood had been my father, as well as yours. "See the devil!—not I," cried Wood impatiently. ‘But for now, I’m taking you home. But when he looked again, there she was! "I don't understand," he said, finally. At one moment, it seemed as if the flying bark was about to put to shore.
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