But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. She shrank from him as he gripped her hand more forcibly. "Heaven have mercy on his soul!" ejaculated Wood. " "We may believe as much of that as we please, I suppose," observed the carpenter's wife, with a sneer.
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