His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. Death belongs to God, young man. Winifred listened to his narration with the profoundest attention; and, when it concluded, her tearful eye and throbbing bosom told how deeply her feelings had been interested. ” Suppose she were to add, “I am going away!” “I’m glad to hear you say it,” said Mr. Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano.
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