"Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. Strange gurgle-like noises emanated from the crypt. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order.
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