Monsieur Valade heaved a gusty sigh, and Gerald, with heavy diplomacy and a forced heartiness of manner, turned the subject. There was no rush. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs. "By means of the watchman who had the charge of me," replied Thames. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners. The shouts drew nearer, and lights were seen flashing ruddily against the sides and gables of the neighbouring houses. I can’t. That’s how it takes me.
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