"Vell, vell," growled Sharples, after he had listened to the other's remonstrances, "it shall be done. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. CHAPTER XIX. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. ” She glanced into his blue eyes wearily. “You are mistaken, David.
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