” There was a strange look in her face, the look of a frightened child. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. ‘Alors, I see how is this. Unless he can arise from the bottom of the Thames, where he and his abhorred father lie buried, you will never behold him again in this world. ’ He had abandoned the “sir”, Gerald noted, realising that the footman’s respect for him had dropped sharply.
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