And yet, she would be easy prey in her present state of mind to any plausible, attractive scoundrel. Wood, contemptuously, "he'll never mend till he comes to Tyburn. I am quite clear about this. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. I just thought perhaps a different boy was in store for you. Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies.
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