His perception of her personal beauty deepened and quickened with each encounter. Terrific shouts were raised by the rabble, who threatened to tear Wild in pieces if he showed himself. “And where are YOU going?” he said. ‘Will you let be?’ Instead she grasped his hand tighter. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. The next door neighbor's dog, chained outside, let out a single bark, but was silent as soon as she turned in that direction, instinctively afraid. " "Ay, marry," replied Wood, with a look that seemed to say that he did not think it required any surprising skill in the art of divination to predict the doom of the individual in question; but whatever opinion he might entertain, he contented himself with inquiring into the grounds of the conjuror's evil augury respecting the infant. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. What a fool I was to separate the two in my mind. Where is he?" "Here," answered Jack.
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