"So, stir your stumps, Saint Giles; and, if you mean to lock us up, use despatch. Gerald’s chest tightened. In the midst of the holy place, which he had formerly profaned, lay the body of his unfortunate mother, and he could not help looking upon her untimely end as the retributive vengeance of Heaven for the crime he had committed. Unwillingly he drew a little nearer, and became one of the group of loiterers about the entrance. .
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