"No," replied Hogarth, hastily effacing the sketch. "I beg your pardon," he cried; "but really—ha! ha!—you must excuse me!—that is so uncommonly diverting—ha! ha! Do let me hear it again?—ha! ha! ha!" "Upon my word," rejoined Wood, "you seem vastly entertained by my misfortunes. Light the lantern. Oh, wait!’ She seized Jack’s arm as he was about to go out of the room. But, when? When do they go?’ ‘Today, miss. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. Tristan dying and Isolde coming to crown his death.
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