You see, it's like this. She looked away. “Excellent fellow!” he answered a little irrelevantly. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured.
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