Advancing towards Wood, Jonathan fixed his keen gray eyes upon him, and demanded, in a stern tone whether the persons who had taken refuge in the adjoining house, were bailiffs. Mike was draped over the laminate kitchen counter, on the phone as usual. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. Where even to be a Catholic, they say, is to be looked upon with scorn and disgust. I sha’n’t care a rap if we can never marry.
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