"There's the house," said Jack, pointing to a pretty cottage, the small wooden porch of which was covered with roses and creepers, with a little trim garden in front of it. He stopped abruptly. Wood scarcely knew where he was. We shall be equally matched. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. I am called Melusine. I'll try the effect of a jolly stave.
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