"Eh-day! what's this?" cried Wood, looking up from beneath his spectacles. “Yes, but maybe later. ’ ‘I don’t even know your granddaughter, ma’am. . ’ At that, a flush drenched her cheeks and she snatched her hand away. Rowland felt himself sinking beneath the powerful grasp of his enemy. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. If I’d meant it, my girl, you’d be dead meat.
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