"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. ‘I assure you it was mutual. The man looked as though he would have liked to deny it, but could not. He was brooding over her, she could sense it, and the shadowy circles around his lovely dark eyes bespoke a terrible ongoing insomnia. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror.
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