There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. “Hey, John. He fancied that the turnkeys had discovered his flight and were in pursuit of him,—that they had climbed up the chimney,—entered the Red Room,— tracked him from door to door, and were now only detained by the gate which he had left unbroken in the chapel. Strangers look in and long, and neighbours are moved to envy.
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