“I am afraid,” he said gravely, “that your sister has been a little indiscreet. “I saw you in a sort of sloping, slippery place, holding on by your hands and slipping. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting. I didn’t understand. " "Then you will stay!" she cried, clapping her hands joyfully, "for I'm sure he won't part with you. Oh! you haven't got the key—then I must have it, I suppose.
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