My only love is for my poor lost son. Wood," cried David, pouring out a glass of the spirit, and offering it to the carpenter, "that'll warm the cockles of your heart. "Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers. He grabbed her legs and threw the covers from the bed. She remembered abruptly that she was really living upon his money.
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