‘Couldn’t even trouble to make a pretence of motherhood. It has been purchased by blood!" "What! have you cut old Wood's throat?" asked Wild, with great unconcern, as he took up the bag. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. He believes that he is leaving this conscience behind; and I want to watch his disillusion on this particular point. Life is two things, that’s how I see it; two things mixed and muddled up together. My reply to all of them has been the same.
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