"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. ’ She edged sideways a little more, her eyes on the pistol in his hand. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. If you don’t eat humble-pie now you may live to fare worse later. Every care had been taken of it, as well as of himself, by the humane inmates of the house in which he had sought shelter. He made Hong-Kong at dusk: wet, hungry, and a bit groggy for the want of sleep; but he was in no wise discouraged. " "Loved me! You!" "I loved you," continued Jonathan, "and struck by your appearance, which seemed above your station, inquired your history, and found you had been stolen by a gipsy in Lancashire.
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