“I think,” began Ann Veronica, “that you don’t realize—” He disregarded her entirely. O'Higgins struck a match and lit his Henry Clay, thereby drawing upon himself the mutual disapproval of the spinsters. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. "Ah! you are there, my dear young lady," said the widow, smiling faintly; "when I first waken, I'm always in dread of finding myself again in that horrible asylum.
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