He entered it; crossed the room, in which there was only a small truckle-bed, over which he stumbled; opened another door and gained the stair-head. “And by what right do you do anything of the sort?” “No right at all,” he admitted. He was looking pale and ill. “As if it could possibly matter what such a person thinks of you. But tell me one thing I don’t understand—tell me one thing: How can you help it by coming down into the battle and the mire? That’s the thing that concerns me. Wood became sensible that he was not alone. CHAPTER I.
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