” “Well,” Mrs. ” Hill looked up at him, an unkempt, rough-looking object, with broken collar, tumbled hair, and the blood slowly dripping from his face. It’s one of our conventional superstitions. "As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. Once she heard him mutter, and she leaned down.
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