"It is your son. ‘Silence,’ hissed a voice in French. What a pity! But why? There was no way over this puzzle, nor under it, nor around it: that men should drink, knowing the inevitable payment. Of you—an angel with one wing. It was horrible, but she must do it. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred.
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