" "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. The white haze of poison clouded her eyes. He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. The sounds that reach the ear, and the objects that meet the eye, are all calculated to awaken a train of sad and serious contemplation. It was the size of my palm. Wood could not avoid making a slight shuffling sound. It’s made up of things as small as the diameter of hairs and big as life and death.
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