Then a surge of rage welled up. " The hint was not lost upon Wood. I think that I have become a drug drinker. Oh, Heavens; that I should have ever indulged a hope of happiness while that terrible man lives!" "Compose yourself, Joan," said Wood; "all will yet be well. Give me your hand. "Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind. Montague Hill, and I do not think that under those circumstances I should be long about it. .
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