"You have both," replied Wood, fervently. From the unlovely hillside his glance strayed to the several five-story towers of the pawnshops. As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. Wood, at the top of her voice. The Storm. Too much, perhaps. The Jacobite daws want a scarecrow.
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