Angelina's distress over these mischances was pathetic. "Enough!" rejoined Wild; "he shall not return. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. Nowhere could he see that reaching, menacing Hand. “I will be off,” she declared. "He will be murdered!—Help!" "My child!—my love!" cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back. '" "What is that?" she asked. And now YOU’RE on the war-path.
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