“I must take them,” she said, to help herself over her own incredulity. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. " "God help me, what a muddle!" The cigar crumbled in Spurlock's hand. I want to talk to you, and I must return tomorrow. "Don't go, I beg of you!" she implored. "'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed. The first peg was torture.
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