“Well,” she said, “good-night, father. " "'No doubt,'" said Wood, who had again turned over the leaves of the sacred volume—', "no doubt this man is a murderer, whom, though he escaped the seas, yet vengeance suffereth not to live'. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up.
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