"What do you mean by that, sirrah?" cried Wood, reddening with anger. It would not burden him with any obligation. It was Missy and Michelle in her grandmother's old Buick. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. He looked half at her and half at the sky. She was suddenly grave. A dresser, a washstand, and a clothes press. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed.
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