There is a place—This isn’t the place. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. . They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. She crushed the letter in her hand. . Besides these, there was a sturdylooking fellow, whom he instantly recognised as the honest blacksmith who had freed him from his irons at Tottenham. This obstacle, which appeared to preclude the possibility of egress in that quarter, was speedily got rid of.
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