In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. By the time she arrived at the Beck’s doorstep, the morning was risen. Wood heard the cry. He found his youngest daughter intrusive in his thoughts all through the morning, and still more so in the afternoon.
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