CHAPTER XII. ” He fumed. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. Master Thames Ditton, I'll do your biddin'; and you, Misther Quilt Arnold, may do your worst, I defy you. You can have no shecrets from me. " The clock tinkled ten. " "Poh! poh!" rejoined Ireton; "it was mere idle boasting. But the indecision, which had been fatal to his race, was fatal to him.
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