The evenings were beginning to draw out, and it would not be dark for an hour. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. Oh, Heavens; that I should have ever indulged a hope of happiness while that terrible man lives!" "Compose yourself, Joan," said Wood; "all will yet be well. But it was extraordinary what seemingly irrelevant things could restore her to the thought of Capes again.
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