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Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. “I regret that you should ever have proposed it,” he went on. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations.
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