At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. Wish SHE”—he indicated Miss Klegg’s back with a nod—“was at the bottom of the sea. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. " "Ah!" ejaculated the widow, hiding her face. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. She ignored it until it repeated itself. from many ships.
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