Before he could recover from the stunning effects of the blow, Wood possessed himself of the child: and, untying the noose which had been slipped round its throat, had the satisfaction of hearing it cry lustily. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. His tongue was more ready, his wit more keen than usual. “Anything is better than this—this stifled life down here. That would not help her. Wood, whose loss I shall ever deplore.
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