There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. " "Is he alive!" vociferated Trenchard. By this time, she had so far succeeded in calming herself, that she answered the greetings of the neighbours whom she encountered on her way to the sacred edifice—if sorrowfully, still composedly. It isn’t illusions—for us. " "None whatever," rejoined Wild.
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