" At the sound of his voice every vestige of colour fled from Winifred's cheeks, and the work upon which she was engaged fell from her hand. His eyes were small and grey; as far apart and as sly-looking as those of a fox. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. Do I, Bess, eh?" "Nobody whatever, love," replied Edgeworth Bess; "nobody but me, dear.
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