Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father. A narrow entry, formed by two low walls, communicated with the main thoroughfare; and in this passage, under the cover of a penthouse, stood Wood, with his little burthen, to whom we shall now return. For a moment he did not recognize Annabel. Melusine ran to catch at his arm. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. You should have more. ’ Roding started.
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