Wood heard the cry. \"God, it's too curly for a brush. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. Not a word was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of expectation reigned throughout.
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