Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. . The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. Under happier circumstances nothing would have given me more pleasure than to have offered you a home with your sister. ‘Certainly this is true,’ she managed. If Jack should die, all though her fault, she could never forgive herself. ” “It scarcely gives me a chance,” Mr. Wood having laid hold of the canvass-bag. He had sufficient strength to wait upon himself.
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