"I think you're all bewitched," she cried. Her clock had stopped—stopped at the very hour on which she had quitted the Mint! She had not the heart to wind it up again. The poor old imbecile! Why, this child was a firebrand, a wrecker, if ever he had seen one; and the worst kind because she was unconscious of her gifts. "To—to—no matter what," returned the widow distractedly.
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