If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. And shall their wretched offspring live to blight my hopes, and blast my fame? Never!" And, with these words, he grasped Wood by the throat, and, despite his resistance, dragged him to the very verge of the platform. He sat back in an easy chair with a hand upon each of the elbows, and looked steadfastly into the fire. It rained heavily all day, so he did not stir forth.
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