You know nothing of life, nothing of its dangers, nothing of its possibilities. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. He had his sections of the Siegfried map folded in his pocket, and he squatted up with his legs crossed like an Indian idol while she lay prone beside him and followed every movement of his indicatory finger. "Don't mention it," returned Wood, in the conciliatory tone of one who admits he has been in the wrong; "your explanation is perfectly satisfactory.
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