"No, no, Sir," replied Ireton. The dog was, in a sense, a gift of the gods. " "I know you'll contradict it, Sir," said the widow, looking at Wood as if she dreaded to have her fears confirmed,—"I know you will. “Nigel, Nigel,” she cried. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. She was quite assured that she would never see him again. "But, though the storm has spared him, I will not.
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