"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. He had attained the residence by his political ascension to the Duke of Herculis. "Get about your business!" "Thames!" cried Jack, beckoning to his friend. " "And I trust you will never have occasion to weep again, my poor soul," replied Wood, setting down his lantern, and brushing a few drops from his eyes, "unless it be tears of joy. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig.
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