” She said. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. Yet the thing hidden within her called and called. Anna’s face was half turned from him, but her expression, and the tone of her monosyllable puzzled him. “Cheveney!” she repeated. With one or two exceptions, there were no pews; and, as the intercourse with London was then but slight, the seats were occupied almost exclusively by the villagers. I would have heard her. I knew him in spite of his dress. "Perhaps," replied Wood, doubtfully. “I will be off,” she declared. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart.
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