"How old are you?" demanded Miss Prudence. The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. In the periphery of her vision, she saw the door pulled back. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. This was automatically rather than thoughtfully done; habit.
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