Wood," said Jonathan, advancing towards him, and speaking in a low tone, "the secret of your adopted son's birth is known to me. The chair was torture. We've got to get him to care. He was still flashily dressed, with much obvious jewellery and the shiniest of patent boots, but his general bearing and appearance had altered for the worse. ‘Damn you, what’s the matter with you?’ he snapped in frustration. Light flooded the place. Her aunt leaped unhappily to the thought of penitence.
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