Stanley, standing up with a sudden geniality and rubbing his hands together. They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. I thought that you were he. " "I do not doubt it," retorted Winifred, scornfully; "because I attach credit neither to one nor the other.
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