"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. He misstated her age and address; but you can’t get home on him for a thing like that. Her knees almost sank beneath her as she raised the latch of the front door and looked out. Her aunt did not object to capital punishment or war, or the industrial system or casual wards, or flogging of criminals or the Congo Free State, because none of these things really got hold of her imagination; but she did object, she did not like, she could not bear to think of people not having and enjoying their meals. Mr. Wood sank, submissively, into a chair, while his daughter hastened to execute her arbitrary parent's commission.
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