The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. She guessed Jack was having trouble finding the right piece of carving. "Good night!" "Blueskin," whispered Jack, in his natural tones, as the other passed him, "wait without.
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