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“Cheveney!” she repeated. Sheppard, who had again looked round towards her son, beheld a hand glance along the side of the woollendraper. I mean—I mean to do what I can. “I too am asked. “I love you, Anna, and I want you for my wife. Oh, Heavens; that I should have ever indulged a hope of happiness while that terrible man lives!" "Compose yourself, Joan," said Wood; "all will yet be well.

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