“You need have no further trouble. She confided in me yesterday. “Don’t!” she said, weakly, as he had bent down and put one arm about her and seized her hands with his disengaged hand and kissed her—kissed her almost upon her lips. ’ ‘I still think you ought to have waited, miss. Can’t face a scandal. One of your aunts died, I believe, and the other removed to London. Only the next of kin. ‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep.
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