Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. “I opened my eyes, and she was bending over my bedside. The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. It’s one of our conventional superstitions.
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