Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. ‘Come, cry a truce. Gosse must now fight with his back to the altar, and a dais at his heels. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. The old man was conducted to Jack's cell by the turnkey, who remained near him during their interview. " "Don't stir, or they'll chain you to the wall," said his mother detaining him.
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