His favorite newspaper was the Times, which he began at breakfast in the morning often with manifest irritation, and carried off to finish in the train, leaving no other paper at home. She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid. Mother—dear mother!" he added, clasping her in his arms, "Look at me again. "Two hundred pounds!" exclaimed Ireton, "besides the governor's offer—that's three hundred. Killed is too kind a word. She began to draw on her gloves thoughtfully. He knew it absolutely, as if he had the check in his hand.
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