"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. All the same, I wish I had that fellow by the throat! Just the virile, unregenerate man in me wishes that. ‘Or do I arrest you and have these soldiers march you off to gaol?’ A sweep of his arm indicated the array of military strength on the benches, every eye of which was trained on the little scene being enacted before them. “Oh, I know you would stop me if you could.
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