CHAPTER XXII. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. The detective reckoned that his quarry would be up in ten days more. Having only seen him in the gloom of a dungeon, and loaded with fetters, Kneebone had not noticed this alteration: but he was now greatly struck by it. "I beg your pardon!… A bit rocky this morning…. "Off!" she cried with a prolonged and piercing shriek. I will be up with my wife and daughter after lunch.
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