One can't help being jealous, you know, even of an unworthy object. Such was the terror inspired by Wild's vindictive character, that few durst face him who had given him cause for displeasure. Wood gave the required promise, though he could not help thinking that if either of them had cause to be jealous he was the party. Daughters were in the air that day. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. "Oh God! she is dying," exclaimed Jack in a voice suffocated by emotion. “May I be allowed to say,” he declared, “that I came here with the same intention. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry.
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