She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. “My charm of manner, I suppose. There isn’t.
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