You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. " "'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'. "Spare me!" he groaned, looking upwards. “Why will you not be sensible? Go back to your old life and your old friends, and forget all about Paris and this absurd delusion of yours.
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