"He will be murdered!—Help!" "My child!—my love!" cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back. "I guess who you mean," rejoined Shotbolt. I was sorry for what I did afterwards; for, I don't know why, but, poor, lady! with her pale face, and black eyes, she reminded me of my mother. ‘You do not use your head, Emile,’ she said flatly.
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