"How old are you?" demanded Miss Prudence. In stature, he was short and stumpy; in person, corpulent; and in countenance, sleek, snub-nosed, and demure. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. I have healed and I am still your wife!\" She looked at him desperately, his eyes illuminated by firelight. You see—I didn’t understand.
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