She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. " "Pity!" shrieked the widow. “I suppose you’re like the rest of them. "There's the house," said Jack, pointing to a pretty cottage, the small wooden porch of which was covered with roses and creepers, with a little trim garden in front of it. If Jack should die, all though her fault, she could never forgive herself. “I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked. ” The redness in his face betrayed him. I tell you I’m Meysey Hill, the railway man.
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