He understood. ‘What’s more,’ went on Martha, ‘I knew something Mr Charvill didn’t, or he wouldn’t so readily have left it behind him. ‘I begin to ask myself why it is that I wish to become of these people. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him. For that matter, my future be damned. A granddaughter of mine!’ The idiocy of this notion stuck in his craw and he could think of nothing else for a moment. So I am already no longer the girl you knew at Morningside Park. Parbleu, but must she do this all through the house? Evidently she must, for not only could she not properly see the paintings and portraits that hung on the walls, but she was in imminent danger of bumping into the sheet-shrouded furniture. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death.
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