’ For the space of half a minute, Gerald continued to scowl in silent frustration. Including the wings, it presented a frontage of five hundred and forty feet. Winifred listened to his narration with the profoundest attention; and, when it concluded, her tearful eye and throbbing bosom told how deeply her feelings had been interested. She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. In this room was my ruin begun: in this room it should be ended. "Mur—der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled. It was a clear, lovely, October morning.
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