On reaching the churchyard, he perceived the melancholy procession descending the hill. "Oh, God! would you take him from me?— would you murder him?" "His father's name?—and he is free," rejoined Rowland, holding her arms. From head to foot he was attired in the fashionable garb of the young man of the moment. You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls.
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