It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. Wood made no reply; but, hastily kissing his weeping daughter, and bidding her be of good cheer, hurried off. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. ‘Well, if the fellow Gosse is still at large, there’s no saying what he will be at next, is there? I see nothing for it but for you to see General Lord Charvill at once. Then, if you are bad to me, I can more easily blow off your head. "To him I owe everything," continued the widow, "life itself—nay, more than life,—for without his assistance I should have perished, body and soul.
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