Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. “It can’t make any difference to you, and there are not half a dozen people in Paris who could tell us apart. Luck. I never had even a real doll," she added, as she snuggled the flea-bitten head to her heart. "He hears me not! he's gone!" she added, as the door was opened and shut with violence; "something tells me I shall never see him again!" When her father, a moment afterwards, issued from the parlour to ascertain the cause of the noise, he found her seated on the stairs, in an agony of grief.
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