F. Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. “I have a letter for him from his brother, which I was just leaving. Anna picked up an ancient magazine, and began to turn over the pages in a leisurely way. Even the love of a mother does not sway him. We WERE thieves. "I'll tell you," replied Jack, with forced calmness.
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