"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. I was happy to oblige them, I had grown sick of the heat of the south and all the miserable sun. Kneebone's door, you begged me to await your return here, assuring me you would not detain me five minutes. There were two sisters, you know. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. ” “I know,” said Manning, nodding gravely.
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