" "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. It had, as it were, blown up at the concussion of his first step. " "Let me touch you, then; let me feel if you are really flesh and blood," cried the poor maniac, creeping towards him on all fours. Man's fate is in his own hands. ’ ‘What?’ Roding’s glare tried Gerald’s control severely, but he pursued his theme unheeding. Wood. “Dare!” she said. The estates must, ere long, revert to Sir Rowland.
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