" "I will yield it to no one but its mother," answered Wood. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Suddenly she felt her wrist grasped by a strong hand. ‘No mistaking you this time. Strewn across the bed was a multitude of jumbled garments.
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