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Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. She came into the room. You are not with the Kent militia, are you?’ ‘West Kent, yes. "Gracious Heaven!—is she the inmate of a mad-house?" "She is, Sir," answered the woollen-draper, sadly, "driven there by her son's misconduct. “The rest,” she said, holding tightly to his hands, “is the most important of all. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. “I’ve got nothing in the world to pack with except a toy size portmanteau.
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