Perhaps I am still mad. Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand. Paris was full, and it was by no means a retired spot which she had found. "He will be murdered!—Help!" "My child!—my love!" cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back. Here is one verse.
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