Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration. It was Ennison who for the rest of his visit was quiet and subdued. But, bloodan'-'ouns! man, if ould Nick himself were to hit me a blow, I'd be afther givin' him another. Wild in his own domain.
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