A neighbor stopped by as the day wore on, causing her to duck and cower as he rang the doorbell over and over. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed. If only to say goodbye. Cut it as short as you can. ToC During the whole of the next day and night, the poor widow hovered like a ghost about the precincts of the debtors' garrison,—for admission (by the Master's express orders,) was denied her. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips.
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