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I had left Paris. "At present under the care of his preserver—one Owen Wood, a carpenter, by whom he was brought up. CHAPTER XII. Wood had been my father, as well as yours. There were some deepseated fears of the rot spreading to England, if the simmering discontent of the peasantry of France were to erupt any further. Perhaps the boys had already faced off and he had missed it, he thought sourly. You wish another name? Eh bien. “Thank God,” he exclaimed. It isn’t. It’s not you—not a bit.
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