It seemed to him that speech would be an anticlimax. "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. Both advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features of Rowland.
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