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In each pause she could sense his growing trepidation. "Friends!" echoed Kneebone, with a look of dismay. Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. “I opened my eyes, and she was bending over my bedside. ‘The man’s gone,’ her old nurse told her, when she had recovered a little. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo.
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