It’s an instinct. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. Wood, who was standing at the edge of a raised platform, anxiously waving his hand to him. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. The black, meantime, began to ply his hammer, and speedily unriveted the chains.
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