It was the first—and the last! At this juncture, the handle of the door was tried, and the voice of Mr. hopelessly, and it made me desperate. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. It was on the eve of that memorable rebellion which broke forth, two months later, in Scotland. ‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. He left the room, presumably to sleep elsewhere, but the only other room with a fire was the servant’s quarters. He resumed his listening.
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