She spoke with a certain odd deliberation carefully chosen words which fell like drops of ice upon the man who sat listening. “It’s no sort of good, Ann Veronica, pretending one does believe when one doesn’t. 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. Life is so good. "No, Sir Rowland," replied the attendant, "as you proposed to ride to Saint Albans to-night, I thought you might choose to see him yourself.
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