“It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. The benches running round the room, though fastened to the walls by iron clamps, had been forcibly wrenched off; while the table, which was similarly secured to the boards, was upset, and its contents—bottles, jugs, glasses, and bowls were broken and scattered about in all directions. Blank it was, except for a gate near the bridgehead. She looked more than her sixty odd years, in spite of a still lush head of black hair, streaked with a little grey, which was visible under her cap and of immediate interest to Gerald. "I give you one minute for reflection. Mrs. "Because it's not like you," was her answer.
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