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She twisted her fingers tightly. Smith's melody had subsided. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. " "So do I!" she cried; "for then you would have been really my brother. "Hope to. you walking home?\" 3 She paused, stunned. Andrew's church, the bell of which was tolling, was covered with spectators.
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