There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. D'ye hear how the wanes creaks on old Winchester House? We shall have a touch on it ourselves presently. Anything. She was breathing hard, dragging for air, half in fright and half because the sudden effort had used up what little air she had managed to draw so briefly. "Yon's a dear man," said McClintock. It had been a trying day.
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