“I murder people, John. You're in luck to-night, widow. ‘Now let’s have it. She must be beautiful, but beauty is only the beginning. His father and mother are gone now. He knew she was out there, he could feel it. Let your father—if he chooses, leave all his wealth to his adopted son. She addressed her letters, meditated on them for a time, and then took them out and posted them. But on this matter my mind is quite made up. His business has thriven; legacies have unexpectedly dropped into his lap; and, to crown all, he has made a large fortune by a lucky speculation in South-Sea stock,—made it, too, where so many others have lost fortunes, your humble servant amongst the number—ha! ha! In a word, Sir, Mr.
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