The evenings were beginning to draw out, and it would not be dark for an hour. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. “I don’t see that his being a good sort matters. ” “You will make me horribly conceited,” he answered. " "Well, that's a hopeful sign. He allowed his voice to drip with sympathy. I was sorry for what I did afterwards; for, I don't know why, but, poor, lady! with her pale face, and black eyes, she reminded me of my mother.
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