CHAPTER XXVIII. On this fresh outburst of the storm, Wood threw himself instinctively into the bottom of the boat, and clasping the little orphan to his breast, endeavoured to prepare himself to meet his fate. “Yes,” she said at last, “it is firm and affectionate. Wild will hang me. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting. ’ ‘Don’t count on it.
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