Winifred listened to his narration with the profoundest attention; and, when it concluded, her tearful eye and throbbing bosom told how deeply her feelings had been interested. I am suspected of having shot the man. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. Folding his arms, he placed his back against the door, and burst into a loud laugh. Suspicion was in his face. ’ Gerald gazed at her without expression. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford.
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