She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. It was equally as beautiful but not quite so fine as the daughter's. If I’d meant it, my girl, you’d be dead meat. There is the election——” He laughed derisively. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. His favorite newspaper was the Times, which he began at breakfast in the morning often with manifest irritation, and carried off to finish in the train, leaving no other paper at home.
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