" "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. The sword, Jacques. I’ve got nothing to do for a month but think. He urged his conductors to a quicker pace to get out of sight of the distressing spectacle, and even felt relieved when he was shut out from it and the execrations of the mob by the walls of the little prison. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. And if I hadn't been thirsty, that poor boob would have made a sure getaway and left James Boyle high and dry among the moth-balls! Oh, the old dome works once every so often.
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