She bolted upright as she heard footsteps rumble towards the door, cursing UPS for being so damn persistent in such foul weather. " "Ah!" exclaimed Sir Rowland, glancing significantly at Charcam, who was a confidant in his Jacobite schemes; "is it the messenger from Orchard-Windham, from Sir William?" "No, Sir Rowland. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. "Most persons would have guessed my meaning.
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