The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls’ heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. She gathered stones to place upon the makeshift grave. "What is it you want?" she asked, as she held out the coat. “I hope you are going to Carey House. ” John said. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. She simply refuses to see or hear from me again. For a few days she was fascinated by the place, exploring the moldy rooms, the weird treasures hiding in forgotten trousseaus. "It is your son. “I repeat, gentlemen,” he said, in an ominously low tone, “what of it?” Drummond shrugged his shoulders.
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