My only love is for my poor lost son. "Have a moment's patience, Sir Rowland," returned Wild; "and you shall hear. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. I saw the metal box a hundred times, but I never thought of opening it until the day I fled. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. Wild is a friend of yours, I'm sorry for what I said. It never seems to enter their heads to try and amuse their menkind.
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