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"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. Killed is too kind a word. There is a railroad. I awaken easily. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. “Me and my bright ideas. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know. ” He paused and looked at her, and said, with a sudden drop into a confidential undertone, “Or else I want to pray. "Then his case is hopeless.
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