‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. It was a tale of battle, murder, and sudden death on the New York waterfront. Both advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features of Rowland. How she had hated it!… All these mumblings which were never explained, which carried no more sense to her brain than they would have carried to Old Morgan's swearing parrot. " "Give me the brandy, and I'll tell you," replied Wood. It was always jabbing him with white-hot barbs, waking or sleeping.
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