Raven locks fell to her shoulders from under the feathered beaver hat, and curled away down her back. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. He seldom spoke, and drank with a persistence that was sinister. It was so hopeless to put it to them. And a time will come, Veronica, mark my words, a time will come when you will bless me for my firmness to-night.
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