"There's an old proverb," continued Wood, rising and walking towards the fire, "which says,—'Put another man's child in your bosom, and he'll creep out at your elbow. “Let me see,” he said. “A man can manage without hair; A man scores always, everywhere. "I can't see him. ‘Do not imagine that I will leave poor Jacques. ’ ‘And now we know also who is the prétendant, Mademoiselle Charvill. The detective reckoned that his quarry would be up in ten days more. Then she put more coal on, piled it over the ashes, and stood once more upright. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. “I think she would,” she decided. It was finished by the end of that year, each character having asserted itself pronouncedly in my imagination.
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