The next morning came a compact letter from her father. His heart was beating, but faintly and slowly, with ominous intermissions. It was just such a bedroom as she would have chosen for herself. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. “Oh! I wish,” she said, “that people thought alike about these things. She did not twitch. ‘What else was there to do? He paid off the servants and left old Pottiswick in charge, saying that the place would have to remain empty until the heir was found.
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