"He's about to cross the river. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. Too late. A coach was also in attendance, at a little distance. It was a letter. To-night we leave for Marseilles. Prudence shook her head. The hand that had been clenched lay open, relaxed; and upon the palm he saw her mother's locket. "Is it poison?" she asked.
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