“So Cheveney was her friend, you think, eh?” he remarked. Hope reared. “Ugh!” she said. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. It’s made up of things as small as the diameter of hairs and big as life and death. ” He adjusted his glasses on his nose. I'll not speak of Jack or Jonathan. . And as he gave back the portfolio to Sir Rowland he contrived, unobserved, to slip the precious document into his sleeve, and from thence into his pocket.
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