A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. The Night-Cellar XVIII. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. “Agreed,” he said with queer exaltation, and his grip tightened on her hand. " "The woman I mean did not join the assault," rejoined the Master, "but rather seemed to shun observation; and, from the hasty glimpse I caught of her, she appeared to have a child in her arms.
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