Wood. ‘On the contrary,’ Gerald argued, frowning. Wood. He will be hanged—hanged—hanged. “We are clerks in the same bank. I suppose I believe in God. ” “Don’t be foolish,” he said sharply. He took a handful of the gravelly mud, with which the platform was covered, and threw the small pebbles, one by one, towards the gleam. She lived, he noted, very carelessly. A time may come when this little chap will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in Owen Wood.
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