He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. Her aunt went out of the room with dignity and a rustle, and up-stairs to the fastness of her own room. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. A single false step might have precipitated him into the street; or, if he had trodden upon an unsound part of the roof, he must have fallen through it. At this juncture, Sir Cecil and his followers appeared at the threshold. She thought of her aunt and that purse that was dropped on the table, and of many troublesome and ill-requited kindnesses; she thought of the help of the Widgetts, of Teddy’s admiration; she thought, with a new-born charity, of her father, of Manning’s conscientious unselfishness, of Miss Miniver’s devotion.
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