The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. Almost worthy of your own fertile imagination. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. "Ah!" cried Wild, laying down his pen and looking up with a smile of satisfaction. On beholding the intruders, his fears changed to exultation, and he uttered a roar of satisfaction as he glared at them, which could only be likened to the cry of some savage denizen of the plains. "We shall see. The sound of her flying feet brought Gerald leaping for the door. When sentence was passed there wasn't a dry eye in the court. How came you by the hurt, eh?" "How did I come by it?—that's a nate question. He fixed it. "My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers.
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