It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. The old lady’s face was stiff with anger. “Won’t you have some more tea, Mr. Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady.
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