“You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work—or going home. They were talking of “Alcide,” as they often did in those days. Got the day off. White, I am not sure that I could afford to come to you. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me.
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