"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. A man might be without relatives, but certainly he would not be without friends, that is to say, without letters. ” Annabel sank suddenly into a chair. "It's not an offer," continued he, "that I'm likely to make, or you're likely to receive every day in the year. E.
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