Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. There were lines in her face that age had not put there. Sepulchre's church was covered—so was the tower. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. ‘I borrow the expression from Melusine. "This is strange," said Jack, under his breath. Once more cheered by daylight, he hastened forward, and entered the chapel.
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