‘Signed by a priest at Le Havre, so it must be true. Sir John hesitated. Here, according to another old custom, already alluded to, a criminal taken to execution was allowed to halt at a tavern, called the Crown, and take a draught from St. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. ” “Agreed,” said Ann Veronica. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. The thought of the picture but added to her despondency. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls.
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