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A wooden balcony in one of the adjoining houses was thronged with ladies, all of whom appeared to take a lively interest in the scene, and to be full of commiseration for the criminal, not, perhaps, unmixed with admiration of his appearance. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. But all that could be ascertained in the village was, that a man had ridden off a short time before in the direction of London.
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