But if you wish to do old Wood a friendly turn, you may bring his wife. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. "His lordship desires me to say—ough! ough!" Fresh groans and hisses.
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