"No, I won't hear you, murderer," rejoined Wood. And she did not merely affect to be driven—she felt driven. It was bad luck to go to Canongate. Hitherto it had been qualified by her conception of all life as a compromise, by her new effort to be unexacting of life. As he crossed the cellar, he passed so near to Jack who had concealed himself behind a piece of furniture that he almost touched him. .
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