Her efforts were vain. His mother's scream seemed again to ring in his ears, and he was so deeply affected that, fearful of exciting attention, he was about to quit the sacred edifice, when he was stopped by the entrance of Thames, who looked pale as death, with Winifred leaning on his arm. Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas. “I’m sorry! Mary! Are you hurt?” “No. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance.
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