Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand. But we've got to cook up some kind of a story to protect her. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. “And now tell me, please, how you eloped from Morningside Park.
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