John sat pensively in the back of his best friend's mother's minivan, piloted by his best friend Mark. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be—ye gods, it may be—innocence. 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. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am.
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