" "Pish!" cried Jack: "I don't value his anger a straw. "I shall want a bottle or two of sack, and a flask of usquebaugh. Rot, no doubt; but we can’t alter it. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. Wood, now more buxom and more gorgeously arrayed than ever,—as well as a young and beautiful female, in whom he was at no loss to recognise the carpenter's daughter.
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