“There are a good many Whites in London. 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. Her thought spoke aloud. Recollect that. “We settled long ago—we’re hard stuff. His pulses beat fast as he walked, his feet fell lightly upon the pavement. ” She was silent, and in the gloom of the dimly lit apartment he could not see her face. .
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