As the body was borne to the house in the arms of the farming-men, Mr. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a moment. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. The release was so great that she felt tears spring from her eyes. Cocked hats and buckled swords spoke of rank. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve.
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