"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. There's good stuff in him, if one could find the way to dig it out. But why this part of the plan now seemed to her quite unattractive was a question she did not care to examine too closely. "Sir Rowland," he added, savagely, and with somewhat of the look of a bull-dog before he flies at his foe, "if it were my pleasure to do so, I could crush you with a breath. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. Much to my amazement, as soon as I was in her presence I forgot about my magic and thought only of love. But if you do not leave this room I must.
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