"Ay, good luck to him! so we have," rejoined Terence; "but we've no objection to take out the dochter's bill in drink. Presently the odour of burnt powder mingled agreeably with that of the incense. And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms. Oh, Heavens; that I should have ever indulged a hope of happiness while that terrible man lives!" "Compose yourself, Joan," said Wood; "all will yet be well.
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