"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. At sight of his wan features, she forgot the urgency of her need for a moment, and fell to her knees at his bedside, placing her hands on his slack ones where they lay on the soiled coverlet. —Though if my name should become as famous as theirs, it wouldn't much matter. 1. But I liked to say it. There was a tearing sound and the cloth of her habit ripped apart as the smothered point drove through it, missing its intended target. It had been a trying day. A moment before he had been a strong man, she had been in his power, a poor helpless thing. A door, it may be remembered, opened from Wild's dwelling into this yard.
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