"What shall we do, Poll?" hesitated Edgeworth Bess. On reaching the churchyard, he perceived the melancholy procession descending the hill. "Strange!" observed the Master; "I thought he'd been at my elbow all this time. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. ” He stood quite silent for a moment, his eyes fixed upon her face. Hill closed his eyes.
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