On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Was she so fearful still? Roding shrugged and grimaced. It felt too good. “I have given it up,” she answered. Before Wood had time to inquire into the cause of this sound, his attention was diverted by a man, who rushed past the entry with the swiftness of desperation. I must apologize for my young puppy of a clerk. The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living.
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