Anna turned deliberately away from the bedside. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. When she awoke, she felt sick, her mouth still salty with blood. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. ’ She grimaced. Wood in the deepest mourning.
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