Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. His literary instincts were reviving. CHAPTER II. ’ He sighed, spread his hands quite in her own manner, and fluttered his lashes. This is a plot entirely abominable, and I scorn to be part of it.
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