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To return was impossible,—to raise himself certain destruction. It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. "He will be murdered!—Help!" "My child!—my love!" cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back. How long he continued thus he scarcely knew; but just before dawn, he managed to regain his legs, and, crawling up a bank, perceived he was within a quarter of a mile of Tottenham. Perhaps it was loneliness. You are not unlike Pandora.
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