Stanley as they drew alongside, to account for his own ruffled and heated expression. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. “I am afraid,” she said, “that he must have a skeleton key to these rooms. Returning to Mrs Sindlesham’s chair, he held up the miniature so the face depicted there was turned towards the old lady.
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