"I LIKE that big wound wooin," said Paul Bernard, sprawling across his mother's knees in his endeavour to gaze till the last moment in which they could be seen at the mighty sunlit walls rising against the deep, pure blue of the Roman sky. "Sit up, Paul, directly. You are hurting me. What a rude, rough little boy you are getting! And I wish you would not say wooin. You can sound your r's if you take the trouble."…
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