A time may come when this little chap will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in Owen Wood. I make no apology for not being with you now. So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. It was as if she had come upon the beautiful marble façade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter, and behind the door—nothing. "But I wish her hand had been as deadly as yours.
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