“And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. “Lots of ‘em!” Capes chuckled. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. Listening at one of the doors leading to the Master Debtors' side, he heard a loud voice chanting a Bacchanalian melody, and the boisterous laughter that accompanied the song, convinced him that no suspicion was entertained in this quarter. Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. A simple wooden monument was placed over the grave, but without any name or date. ‘Don’t, miss,’ uttered the boy. It was painful to want him so much. What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice.
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