Bird, the turner, to give him an order this evening. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. "Ah! Owen Wood, is it you?" cried David in astonishment.
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