Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted. This light did not remain stationary, but could be seen at one moment glimmering through the rents in the roof, and at another shining through the cracks in the wall, or the broken panes of the casement. There was no marriage, and I hated, oh, how I hated the man. She washed her face with unwonted elaboration before she went to bed. Your uncle—our uncle is with him. That night a grave was dug in Willesden churchyard, next to that in which Mrs.
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