Presently. "I'm sorry, Mr. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. Sepulchre's clock struck eight. She feared he might take her tears as a sign of weakness. At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated.
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