"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. A brief feeling of empathy with Pottiswick passed through him. ‘But I find you excessively rude, Gérard. But if I painted her as I'd like to, the natives would instantly distrust me; and I'd have to build up confidence all over again. " "Oh, yes I will. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate.
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