gutenberg. " "Better she die by her own hand, than by that monster's," cried Jack, brandishing the bar. " "So I perceive," replied Wood. “Dear me!” he said. All the same, I wish I had that fellow by the throat! Just the virile, unregenerate man in me wishes that. Oh, I think I understand, Annabel. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen.
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