They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. "Where is the boy?" demanded Sir Rowland. Wood's ear, whispered, "secret agents from France—you understand—friends to the cause—hem!" "I see,—persons of rank!" Mr. "At present under the care of his preserver—one Owen Wood, a carpenter, by whom he was brought up. My natural parents both died a very long time ago and I have been on my own for a great deal of my existence.
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