"I am Owen Wood, at your service. What do you say to Brighton——” Anna looked at him quietly—and he never finished his sentence. Bodies! Bodies! Horrible things! We are souls. We dine at seven-thirty. Sheppard. The idea that he held in his arms the girl whom he had once so passionately loved, and for whom he still retained an ardent but hopeless attachment, almost overcame him. " "Take it back yourself," retorted Jack, sullenly.
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