As Wood obeyed, his foot slipped; and, casting his eyes upon the floor, he perceived it splashed in several places with blood. THIS, this glissade, would be damned scoundrelism. “You have the temperament,” he said. "You are not. Here, Peter," he added to a curly-headed lad, who was playing on one of the grassy tombs, "ask your father to step this way. I—I am a lovesick idiot, and not accountable for my actions.
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