"I heard his voice; but I saw them on the stairs, and durst not approach him, for fear of giving the alarm. F. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. She threw hat and coat on the bed and sat down before the fire. Now, she was the very reverse of all this. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. If, when he returned, he blew out the light, she would go to bed; but if the light burned on for any length of time, she would go silently to the study curtain to learn if his agony was still upon him. .
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