She fell into another slumber, one which was more like a blackout. Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. “Too late, my dear girl,” she exclaimed. " Figg turned aside to hide the tears that started to his eyes,—for the stout prizefighter, with a man's courage, had a woman's heart,—and the procession again set forward.
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