Otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. Wood wound it up by a description of the drenching he had undergone at the Mint pump, the other could hold out no longer, but, leaning back in his chair, gave free scope to his merriment. She refused to accept her fate, but what is it that she could do about it? Night after night she invented alternatives. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. The house was full of aunts, uncles, and cousins meandering about, stuffed until their seams and zippers were bursting. ‘How dull it must have been for you, poor little one.
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