Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. "What's all this?" exclaimed Wood in amazement. “Yes. “You are a dear,” she exclaimed affectionately. It had a tiny flaw, most bizarre. I was grounded for the last two weeks. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. CHAPTER XVI.
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