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. “Curious case,” said Ogilvy, buttering his bread and cutting it up in a way he had. That was the Frenchie, Valade, surely. During all their long comradeship he had never so much as ventured to hold her fingers. Every one else does.
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