Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. He could neither stifle nor deaden that. “And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly. Whilst she was wondering how to frame her request for an advance, Mr. Not with the unavoidable explanations, and the need to secrete the sword and hide it before returning the priest’s horse to its stable—which had been her excuse for running from Martha’s protestations.
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