“We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. ” “Nor I,” said Ann Veronica. Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud.
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