But he wrote on. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. Your uncle—our uncle is with him. If only he had known it, sympathy was almost entirely with him. "Damnation!" exclaimed one of the leaders of the party in a furious tone, snatching a torch from an attendant, and throwing its light full upon the face of the carpenter; "this is not the villain, Sir Cecil. The little room was fragrant with flowers, Anna herself bright, and with all the evidences of well being.
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