The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. Such was the condition of his mind that the danger exhilarated rather than depressed him. As a rule their comings and goings were discussed with perfect confidence, but on this occasion they both felt that there was intent in her silence as to her destination. Or was that perhaps because his business in Piccadilly the other day had gone awry? Perhaps Brewis Charvill had not welcomed him with open arms. His jawline was 78 masculine and severe, only tempered by the soft hazy color of his eyes. "In Heaven's name! what's all this?" cried Wood.
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