” Lucy observed, watching her friend. She had adored the stupid thing, and kept it in her pocket for about ten years. For hours after she had not been sensible to life, only to exquisite echoes. "It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir," rejoined the widow; "but, poor as it is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets. “Do you know,” she said, “that every one is remarking how ill you look. That was the only sound he heard. " "But how in the Lord's name was she brought up? There's a queer story back of this somewhere. She flung herself back into the bare little room, cold, empty, comfortless.
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