“I’m sorry I told you that, Michelle. A time may come when this little chap will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in Owen Wood. She turned away from the doorway of the silk loom to observe. “This is MY thing,” said Ann Veronica, softly, with thoughtful eyes upon him. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door.
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