"Dear me!" she added, as she pledged the amorous woollen-draper, "what a beautiful ring that is. “I have come for an explanation,” she said. "What is it?" "The night," she answered. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. She tucked her stick under her arm and re-read Manning’s letter. This door was crested with spikes, and guarded on the right by a bristling semicircle of spikes.
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