Marvel was almost dislodged from his seat on the coffin by a dead dog, which was hurled against him, and struck him in the face. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. ’ Lady Bicknacre, resplendent in purple satin, and basking in her triumphantly full rooms—for it was obvious that her patronage of the refugees had set a quickly to be followed fashion—was all sorrow and sympathy when Gerald spoke of them. She dared not say the word aloud, not even to herself.
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