What the devil is the matter, Dunster?” “I beg your pardon, sir,” the man answered, “there is a lady here to see you. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. Not us. The solemn strokes were immediately answered by a multitude of chimes, sounding across the Thames, amongst which the deep note of Saint Paul's was plainly distinguishable. Here was one that subtly mocked her.
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