" "And I trust you will never have occasion to weep again, my poor soul," replied Wood, setting down his lantern, and brushing a few drops from his eyes, "unless it be tears of joy. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. ‘Léonore, then?’ She shook her head animatedly, enjoying his attention. . Wood,—"he'll never mend. It is a plain case of alcoholic stupor.
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