" "And so Sir Rowland murdered his friend," remarked Wood. ” “Nor I,” she remarked tersely. Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. " "What's that?" "Think it over," said McClintock, grimly. Something in her tone made him look up. Father— dead. Your name?" "Owen Wood," replied the carpenter; "I've no reason to be ashamed of it. “For nothing, do you call it?” he declared.
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