She tried to compose her thoughts, to think of the last six months, to steep herself in the calm beauty of the surroundings. And now her father said she must not go. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor.
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