" "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. The brain tires of resistance, and when it meets again and again, incoherently active, the same phrases, the same ideas that it has already slain, exposed and dissected and buried, it becomes less and less energetic to repeat the operation. "My heart," rejoined Thames, firmly; "which now tells me I am in the presence of his murderer. In fact he was thinking of other things. I never forgive an injury. . I stubbornly insisted that we wait, and you woke up.
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