Wood, who had recovered her good humour, quitted the room she bestowed a hearty embrace on Thames, and she told him laughingly, that she would "defer all she had to propose to him until to-morrow. On some insane score she fancied she had to state her case in verse. I can wield a quarterstaff as well as a prize-fighter, and have beaten Figg himself at the broadsword. "I am glad you think that," she replied. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended.
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