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’ ‘But he gives them to me. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. Will you come sensibly, or shall I carry you? You are mine!" Ruth's peculiar education had not vitiated the primitive senses; they were always on guard; and in a moment such as this they rushed instantly to the surface. They sat down at the dining room table which seemed empty and 259 huge in the stark, white-walled room. Having now sealed his letter, Sheppard took a handkerchief, and tying it over Shotbolt's face, so as completely to conceal the features, clapped his hat upon his head, and pushed it over his brows. I thought Mr.
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