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"Let me see," replied Wood; "exactly twelve years ago last November. My wife—killed me. Were I to let you go, you'd say I feared you. To her chagrin, he ignored her, and turned a venomous eye on his betrothed. Perhaps the old fool was not as fanciful as they had thought. “Could you play ‘Fiddler on the Roof’?” father Thomas pleaded. “And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly. I had rather have trouble and hardship like that than be taken care of by others.
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