" "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. ‘Monsieur, my wife intended not to anger you,’ he said in a tone of apology. She were brought to bed a few days after Miss Mary. ‘The sisters here will not save you. "So I will," rejoined Shotbolt; "so I will. His tone was rough, almost threatening. From this night I shall pursue a different course; from this night his ruin may be dated. I'll call it my wedding gift.
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