Two souls in travail; one inspired by fresh hopes, the other, by fresh despairs. "You shall not pass," cried several of the crowd. She could tell that he was leering at her. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. Rhea spun round and sank her teeth into Lucy’s arm. " "Take a glass of gin, Ma'am," cried Poll Maggot, holding up a bottle of spirit; "it used to be your favourite liquor, I've heard. Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position.
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