But the general was turning on him, the hint of emotion wiped from his lined features. That is my way, my dear. Alarmed by these prognostications of a storm, and feeling too much exhausted from his late severe treatment to proceed further on foot, Wood endeavoured to find a tavern where he might warm and otherwise refresh himself. He was all alone, too. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward.
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