Wood," said Jonathan, advancing towards him, and speaking in a low tone, "the secret of your adopted son's birth is known to me. The Protestant Flagellant, who whipped his soul rather than his body, who made self-denial the rack and the boot, who believed that on Sunday it was sacrilegious to smile, blasphemous to laugh! Spurlock had gone back spiritually three hundred years. Wood was heard without, angrily demanding admittance. A time may come when this little chap will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in Owen Wood. " "Give me the brandy, and I'll tell you," replied Wood. ’ Which effectually silenced her. It isn’t.
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