“Anna! What tragedy has happened, little sister? No lights, no supper, no coffee —and, above all, no Mr. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. Spurlock—for that's his real name—were married at high noon. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. At length the manager arrived; and together he and Ruth succeeded in getting some of the aromatic spirits of ammonia down the patient's throat. Let—it—fall. I take their life. “I don’t see what else I could have said,” he remarked. This done, she waited at the side of the bed; but he gave no sign that he was conscious of her nearness.
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