Spurling's sooty imp, Caliban. She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. ‘Now then, my lad, you’re under arrest you are. Wood bore up with great fortitude against the shock, attended the inquest, delivered his evidence with composure, and gave directions afterwards for the funeral, which took place on the day but one following—Sunday. Foolish compliments were tossed about like confetti.
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