"No, I won't hear you, murderer," rejoined Wood. The man looked as though he would have liked to deny it, but could not. ’ It was thus in stony silence that the pair traversed the short distance to Stratton Street, where Roding knocked on the major’s door and entered a pleasant woodpanelled hall, with his prisoner firmly in tow. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. His back was no sooner turned, than she slipped this casket into the box. A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home.
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