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. "What would you like most in this world?" he asked. Think! Had you not better hurry back before Sir John discovers? You are his wife right enough. “I have not quarrelled with her. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind.
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