Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. “Forgive my coming in,” she said to Ennison. "In Heaven's name! what's all this?" cried Wood. "Oh! you men! you men! Once get a thing into your head, and nothing will beat it out. I’ve made no one happy.
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