She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. A wooden balcony in one of the adjoining houses was thronged with ladies, all of whom appeared to take a lively interest in the scene, and to be full of commiseration for the criminal, not, perhaps, unmixed with admiration of his appearance. Then it dawned. A black-garbed figure crept forward, noiselessly, towards Gosse’s back. She had felt very uncomfortable around him, grotesque. “I am glad,” she told herself, “I came.
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