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He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning. A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian. Kind of knows it, too. As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. An audible crack sounded in the kitchen and Mark slumped backwards, unconscious. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. The hansom sped through the crowded streets.
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