Do help me, Lady Ferringhall. She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened. Aunt Jane had her quiet moments. I seed he was one,—and a sharp un, too,—at a glance. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. "Ah! Owen Wood, is it you?" cried David in astonishment.
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