Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore. “Well, I don’t feel like standing it. "Shpeak up, vill you?" cried Abraham, rapping his knuckles against the hatch. Now, abruptly, they were real again, though very distant, and she had come to say farewell to them across one sundering year. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn.
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