‘But this is not to my blame, grandpére. The evenings were dulcet and soft. E. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. And shall their wretched offspring live to blight my hopes, and blast my fame? Never!" And, with these words, he grasped Wood by the throat, and, despite his resistance, dragged him to the very verge of the platform.
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