’ ‘I have found Mary Remenham’s daughter,’ he repeated. . ” “But you,” she exclaimed, “you are not coming. Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. Every time you mention the father, she turns into marble. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated.
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