"To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. " "But Wild still lives," cried Wood. She felt her chest trying to float up, but the blessed undertow, the dreaded reason why she was warned to never bathe in the ocean, sucked her feet down, putting the decision where it belonged, into the hands of God. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive.
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