Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. " "Give me the brandy, and I'll tell you," replied Wood. The sun shined weakly through brief pinpricks 90 in the thick cloud cover, the weather was brewing a storm. My arm's nearly well again. Let your father—if he chooses, leave all his wealth to his adopted son.
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