My sister was scarcely likely to make a mistake. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. This left Spurlock alone. The conversation which her entrance had interrupted began to buzz again all around her. The doctor said you wrote. Your name?" "Owen Wood," replied the carpenter; "I've no reason to be ashamed of it. "Will you write," asked the doctor, "and tell me how you are getting along?" "Oh, yes!" "The last advice I can give you is this: excite his imagination; get him started with his writing. Annabel thought, and thought again. ” “The work’s almost essential for the B.
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