The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. "I haven't a word to say, Ah Cum, not a word. This key," he added, taking it from the boy, "was purloined from me by your father, Jack. At this juncture, a cry was raised by a servant from below, that the robbers were flying through the garden. He could scarcely blame her.
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