‘Wait a minute, though. “Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said. A man might be without relatives, but certainly he would not be without friends, that is to say, without letters. To-morrow, we'll go to the Fleet and get spliced. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. He is in the secret passage.
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