Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners. Wood in a sharp tone. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. She accomplished it with the aid of the young fellow’s hand, and stepped down into the road, glancing up at the house as she did so. Unconscious that his movements were watched, Shotbolt, meanwhile, hastened towards Wych Street.
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