‘She may well try to go back. ‘She won’t like it,’ prophesied the captain gloomily. She took her hat from the peg in the corner and began to put it on. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. Immediately a feathered hat emerged, under which a familiar countenance was visible. “I don’t mind, of course, your seeing her sometimes, still there are differences— differences in social atmospheres. ’ ‘What?’ ‘Neat little toy. .
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