He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. "I'll pledge you in that toast with all my heart. Tell me exactly what has happened.
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