She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. I believe that he will marry her. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. There was no one at home, and I was coming away when I saw that the door was open. As she averted her gaze, a terrible idea crossed her.
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