She felt a little ashamed of herself, a bit of a hypocrite. “Are you going to the Vorsack’s for dinner tonight?” “Yes, I think I’ll stop by. Gay," he added, turning to the poet. “Dear me! I wonder what I ought to do. Wood!" "Leave go!" thundered Blueskin—"leave go—you'd better!"—and he held the sack as firmly as he could with one hand, while with the other he searched for his knife. If I’m late again I’ll have to serve another detention!” She excused herself, hoping it was not too obvious she was running away.
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