‘Oh, peste,’ she cried out in distressed tones. Heard of your last escape. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it. ‘What, and miss getting myself murdered?’ ‘She said she wouldn’t murder you. Even on cool days the gardens were colorful and bright, with orange trees emanating sweetness and bumblebees drunkenly weaving from flower to flower. Wood strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the flying skiff.
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