“I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. But he was destined to have every tide of feeling awakened—every wound opened. "Come! I see the storm has blown over," cried Winifred, brightening up. " So saying, he descended a short spiral staircase, and, entering a long stone gallery, from which several other passages branched, took one of them, and after various turnings—for he was familiar with all the intricacies of the prison— arrived at the cell of which he was in search. The cloth nearly touches the floor. The curtains which she had left drawn were open, and the electric lights were turned on. He understood now that it was a part of her inheritance.
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