"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. " "There isn't an angel in heaven, Ruth, purer or sweeter than you are. I shall take to him as nat'ral as if he were my own flesh and blood afore long. "Don't be angry with me, Thames," continued Sheppard, in a tone calculated, as he thought, to appease his companion's indignation. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. "Come along, Mrs. ” She repeated, as if she answered an objector: “A sort of blacklegging.
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