"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. Wood, sinking into a chair, and fanning herself violently,—"what a fluster you have put me into with your violence, to be sure! And at the very time, too, when you know I'm expecting a visit from Mr. ‘Well?’ he uttered between heavy breaths. ” “And he sat at my table,” Annabel said bitterly, “and yet he did not know me. The priceless things were gathered, the belongings packed. ‘I’ll send one of my men to see you here this very evening. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it.
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