She had removed her hat and utterly disarranged her already unruly black locks by running agitated fingers through them. "It is", seplied Winifred; "have you brought any tidings of Thames Darrell!" "Troth have I!" replied Terence: "but, bless your angilic face, how did you contrive to guess that?" "Is he well?—is he safe?—is he coming back," cried the little girl, disregarding the question. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago.
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