Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. No more scuffling. No girl with a face like that…. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. But one of these days everything will click back into place.
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