“Some afternoon. Had Gosse taken it as he escaped? What could she do? Gosse now knew that she was the daughter of Mary Remenham. ” “Oh, it wasn’t that. All right. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand.
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