So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. “Can you not understand? It is of no use your taking my identity and all the burden of my iniquities upon your dear shoulders if I am to be recognized the moment I show my face in London. You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world. You shall not take me alive. " "The ways of Providence are inscrutable," observed Wood.
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