“Sir John,” her aunt repeated, with thin emphasis, “is coming to see your sister. " With this, he attacked her vigorously in his turn. When she looked into their eyes, her despair put her beyond tears. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy. You will stop at once.
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