"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. If the principal instigator of the crime, whom I afterwards encountered on the platform, and who was dashed into the raging flood by the shower of bricks, escaped, his preservation must have been indeed miraculous. ’ She was backing across the room, moving towards the screen. Her eyes were lit with smouldering passion. The light fell upon the fugitive, who stood before him in an attitude of defence, with the child in his arms.
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