He had buckled on his hanger, and had two brace of pistols in his belt, as well as others in this holsters. “Not for these things, O Ann Veronica, have you revolted,” it said; “and this is not your appropriate purpose. I'm sorry. CHAPTER VIII. “It is hateful—diabolical!” he exclaimed. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. 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. Father— dead.
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