No. 62.] SATURDAY,
JUNE 30, 1860 [PRICE 2d.
THE WOMAN IN WHITE.
———•———
PART THE SECOND. HARTRIGHT'S NARRATIVE.
VII.
When
I reached home again, after my interview with Mrs. Clements, I was struck by
the appearance of a change in Laura.
The unvarying gentleness and patience which long
misfortune had tried so cruelly and had never conquered yet, seemed now to
have suddenly failed her. Insensible to all Marian’s attempts to soothe and
amuse her, she sat, with her neglected drawing pushed away on the table; her
eyes resolutely cast down, her fingers twining and untwining themselves
restlessly in her lap. Marian rose when I came in, with a silent distress in
her face; waited for a moment, to see if Laura would look up at my approach;
whispered to me, “Try if you can
rouse her;” and left the room.
I sat down in the vacant chair; gently unclasped the
poor, worn, restless fingers; and took both her hands in mine.
“What are you thinking of, Laura? Tell me, my
darling—try and tell me what it is.”
She struggled with herself, and raised her eyes to
mine. “I can’t feel happy,” she said; “I can’t help thinking——” She stopped,
bent forward a little, and laid her head on my shoulder, with a terrible
mute helplessness that struck me to the heart.
“Try to tell me,” I repeated, gently; “try to tell me
why you are not happy.”
“I am so useless—I am such a burden on both of you,”
she answered, with a weary, hopeless sigh. “You work and get money, Walter;
and Marian helps you. Why is there nothing I can do? You will end in liking
Marian better than you like me—you will, because I am so helpless! Oh,
don’t, don’t, don’t treat me like a child!”
I raised her head, and smoothed away the tangled hair
that fell over her face, and kissed her—my poor, faded flower! my lost,
afflicted sister! “You shall help us, Laura,” I said; “you shall begin, my
darling, to-day.”
She looked at me with a feverish eagerness, with a
breathless interest, that made me tremble for the new life of hope which I
had called into being by those few words.
I rose, and set her drawing materials in order, and
placed them near her again.
“You know that I work and get money by drawing,” I
said. “Now you have taken such pains, now you are so much improved, you
shall begin to work and get money, too. Try to finish this little sketch as
nicely and prettily as you can. When it is done, I will take it away with
me; and the same person will buy it who buys all that I do. You shall keep
your own earnings in your own purse; and Marian shall come to you to help
her, as often as she comes to me. Think how useful you are going to make
yourself to both of us, and you will soon be as happy, Laura, as the day is
long.”
Her face grew eager, and brightened into a smile. In
the moment while it lasted, in the moment when she again took up the pencils
that had been laid aside, she almost looked like the Laura of past days. I
had not misinterpreted the first signs of a new growth and strength in her
mind, unconsciously expressing themselves in the notice she had taken of the
occupations which filled her sister’s life and mine, and in the inference
that she had truly drawn from them for herself. Marian (when I told her what
had passed) saw, as I saw, that she was longing to assume her own little
position of importance, to raise herself in her own estimation and in
ours—and, from that day, we tenderly helped the new ambition which gave
promise of the hopeful, happier future, that might now not be far off. Her
drawings, as she finished them, or tried to finish them, were placed in my
hands; Marian took them from me and hid them carefully; and I set aside a
little weekly tribute from my earnings, to be offered to her as the price
paid by strangers for the poor, faint, valueless sketches, of which I was
the only purchaser. It was hard sometimes to maintain our innocent
deception, when she proudly brought out her purse to contribute her share
towards the expenses, and wondered, with serious interest, whether I or she
had earned the most that week. I have all those hidden drawings in my
possession still: they are my treasures beyond price—the dear remembrances
that I love to keep alive—the friends, in past adversity, that my heart will
never part from, my tenderness never forget.
Am I trifling, here, with the necessities of my task?
am I looking forward to the happier time which my narrative has not yet
reached? Yes. Back again—back to the days of doubt and dread, when the
spirit within me struggled hard for its life, in the icy stillness of
perpetual suspense. I have paused and rested for a while on the course which
is leading me to the End. Is it time wasted, if the friends who read these
pages have paused and rested too?
I took the first opportunity I could find of speaking
to Marian in private, and of communicating to her the result of the
inquiries which I had made that morning. She seemed to share the opinion on
the subject of my proposed journey to Welmingham, which Mrs. Clements had
already expressed to me.
“Surely, Walter,” she said, “you hardly know enough yet
to give you any hope of claiming Mrs. Catherick’s confidence? Is it wise to
proceed to these extremities, before you have really exhausted all safer and
simpler means of attaining your object? When you told me that Sir Percival
and the Count were the only two people in existence who knew the exact date
of Laura’s journey, you forgot, and I forgot, that there was a third person
who must surely know it—I mean Mrs. Rubelle. Would it not be far easier, and
far less dangerous, to insist on a confession from her, than to force it
from Sir Percival?”
“It might be easier,” I replied; “but we are not aware
of the full extent of Mrs. Rubelle’s connivance and interest in the
conspiracy; and we are therefore not certain that the date has been
impressed on her mind, as it has been assuredly impressed on the minds of
Sir Percival and the Count. It is too late, now, to waste the time on Mrs.
Rubelle, which may be all-important to the discovery of the one assailable
point in Sir Percival’s life. Are you thinking a little too seriously,
Marian, of the risk I may run in returning to Hampshire? Are you beginning
to doubt whether Sir Percival Glyde may not, in the end, be more than a
match for me?”
“He will not be more than your match,” she replied,
decidedly, “because he will not be helped in resisting you by the
impenetrable wickedness of the Count.”
“What has led you to that conclusion?” I asked, in some
surprise.
“My own knowledge of Sir Percival’s obstinacy and
impatience of the Count’s control,” she answered. “I believe he will insist
on meeting you single-handed—just as he insisted, at first, on acting for
himself at Blackwater Park. The time for suspecting the Count’s
interference, will be the time when you have Sir Percival at your mercy. His
own interests will then be directly threatened—and he will act, Walter, to
terrible purpose, in his own defence.”
“We may deprive him of his weapons, beforehand,” I
said. “Some of the particulars I have heard from Mrs. Clements may yet be
turned to account against him; and other means of strengthening the case may
be at our disposal. There are passages in Mrs. Michelson’s narrative which
show that the Count found it necessary to place himself in communication
with Mr. Fairlie; and there may be circumstances which compromise him in
that proceeding. While I am away, Marian, write to Mr. Fairlie, and say that
you want an answer describing exactly what passed between the Count and
himself, and informing you also of any particulars that may have come to his
knowledge at the same time, in connexion with his niece. Tell him, in case
he hesitates to comply, that the statement you request will, sooner or
later, be insisted on, if he shows any reluctance to furnish you with it of
his own accord.”
“The letter shall be written, Walter. But, are you
really determined to go to Welmingham?”
“Absolutely determined. I will devote the next two days
to earning what we want for the week to come; and, on the third day, I go to
Hampshire.”
When the third day came, I was ready for my journey.
As it was possible that I might be absent for some
little time, I arranged with Marian that we were to write to each other
every day. As long as I heard from her regularly, I should assume that
nothing was wrong. But if the morning came and brought me no letter, my
return to London would take place, as a matter of course, by the first
train. I contrived to reconcile Laura to my departure by telling her that I
was going to the country to find new purchasers for her drawings and for
mine; and I left her occupied and happy. Marian followed me down stairs to
the street door.
“Remember what anxious hearts you leave here,” she
whispered, as we stood together in the passage; “remember all the hopes that
hang on your safe return. If strange things happen to you on this journey;
if you and Sir Percival meet——”
“What makes you think we shall meet?” I asked.
“I don’t know—I have fears and fancies that I can’t
account for. Laugh at them, Walter, if you like—but, for God’s sake, keep
your temper, if you come in contact with that man!”
“Never fear, Marian! I answer for my self-control.”
With these words we parted.
I walked briskly to the station. There was a glow of
hope in me; there was a growing conviction in my mind that my journey, this
time, would not be taken in vain. It was a fine, clear, cold morning; my
nerves were firmly strung, and I felt all the strength of my resolution
stirring in me vigorously from head to foot.
As I crossed the railway platform, and looked right and
left among the people congregated on it, to search for any faces among them
that I knew, the doubt occurred to me whether it might not have been to my
advantage, if I had adopted a disguise, before setting out for Hampshire.
But there was something so repellent to me in the idea—something so meanly
like the common herd of spies and informers in the mere act of adopting a
disguise—that I dismissed the question from consideration, almost as soon as
it had risen in my mind. Even as a mere matter of expediency the proceeding
was doubtful in the extreme. If I tried the experiment at home, the landlord
of the house would, sooner or later, discover me, and would have his
suspicions aroused immediately. If I tried it away from home, the same
persons might see me, by the commonest accident, with the disguise and
without it; and I should, in that way, be inviting the notice and distrust
which it was my most pressing interest to avoid. In my own character I had
acted thus far—and in my own character I was resolved to continue to the
end.
The train left me at Welmingham, early in the
afternoon.
Is there any
wilderness of sand in the deserts of Arabia, is there any prospect of
desolation among the ruins of Palestine, which can rival the repelling
effect on the eye, and the depressing influence on the mind, of an English
country town, in the first stage of its existence, and in the transition
state of its prosperity? I asked myself that question, as I passed through
the clean desolation, the neat ugliness, the prim torpor of the streets of
Welmingham. And the tradesmen who stared after me from their lonely shops;
the trees that drooped helpless in their arid exile of unfinished crescents
and squares; the dead house-carcases that waited in vain for the vivifying
human element to animate them with the breath of life; every creature that I
saw; every object that I passed—seemed to answer with one accord: The
deserts of Arabia are innocent of our civilised desolation; the ruins of
Palestine are incapable of our modern gloom!
I inquired my way to the quarter of the town in which
Mrs. Catherick lived; and on reaching it found myself in a square of small
houses, one story high. There was a bare little plot of grass in the middle,
protected by a cheap wire fence. An elderly nursemaid and two children were
standing in a corner of the enclosure, looking at a lean goat tethered to
the grass. Two foot passengers were talking together on one side of the
pavement before the houses, and an idle little boy was leading an idle
little dog along by a string, on the other. I heard the dull tinkling of a
piano at a distance, accompanied by the intermittent knocking of a hammer
nearer at hand. These were all the sights and sounds of life that
encountered me when I entered the square.
I walked at once to the door of Number Thirteen—the
number of Mrs. Catherick’s house—and knocked, without waiting to consider
beforehand how I might best present myself when I got in. The first
necessity was to see Mrs. Catherick. I could then judge, from my own
observation, of the safest and easiest manner of approaching the object of
my visit.
The door was opened by a melancholy, middle-aged woman
servant. I gave her my card, and asked if I could see Mrs. Catherick. The
card was taken into the front parlour; and the servant returned with a
message requesting me to mention what my business was.
“Say, if you please, that my business relates to Mrs.
Catherick’s daughter,” I replied. This was the best pretext I could think
of, on the spur of the moment, to account for my visit.
The servant again retired to the parlour; again
returned; and, this time, begged me, with a look of gloomy amazement, to
walk in.
I entered a little room, with a flaring paper, of the
largest pattern, on the walls. Chairs, tables, cheffonier, and sofa, all
gleamed with the glutinous brightness of cheap upholstery. On the largest
table, in the middle of the room, stood a smart Bible, placed exactly in the
centre, on a red and yellow woollen mat; and at the side of the table
nearest to the window, with a little knitting-basket on her lap, and a
wheezing, blear-eyed old spaniel crouched at her feet, there sat an elderly
woman, wearing a black net cap and a black silk gown, and having
slate-coloured mittens on her hands. Her iron-grey hair hung in heavy bands
on either side of her face; her dark eyes looked straight forward, with a
hard, defiant, implacable stare. She had full, square cheeks; a long, firm
chin; and thick, sensual, colourless lips. Her figure was stout and sturdy,
and her manner aggressively self-possessed. This was Mrs. Catherick.
“You have come to speak to me about my daughter,” she
said, before I could utter a word on my side. “Be so good as to mention what
you have to say.”
The tone of her voice was as hard, as defiant, as
implacable as the expression of her eyes. She pointed to a chair, and looked
me all over attentively, from head to foot, as I sat down in it. I saw that
my only chance with this woman was to speak to her in her own tone, and to
meet her, at the outset of our interview, on her own ground.
“You are aware,” I said, “that your daughter has been
lost?”
“I am perfectly aware of it.”
“Have you felt any apprehension that the misfortune of
her loss might be followed by the misfortune of her death?”
“Yes. Have you come here to tell me she is dead?”
“I have.”
“Why?”
She put that extraordinary question without the
slightest change in her voice, her face, or her manner. She could not have
appeared more perfectly unconcerned if I had told her of the death of the
goat in the enclosure outside.
“Why?” I repeated. “Do you ask why I come here to tell
you of your daughter’s death?”
“Yes. What interest have you in me, or in her? How do
you come to know anything about my daughter?”
“In this way. I met her on the night when she escaped
from the Asylum; and I assisted her in reaching a place of safety.”
“You did very wrong.”
“I am sorry to hear her mother say so.”
“Her mother does say so. How do you know she is dead?”
“I am not at liberty to say how I know it—but I
do know it.”
“Are you at liberty to say how you found out my
address?”
“Certainly. I got your address from Mrs. Clements.”
“Mrs. Clements is a foolish woman. Did she tell you to
come here?”
“She did not.”
“Then, I ask you again, why did you come?”
As she was determined to have the answer, I gave it to
her in the plainest possible form.
“I came,” I said, “because I thought Anne Catherick’s
mother might have some natural interest in knowing whether she was alive or
dead.”
“Just so,” said Mrs. Catherick, with additional
self-possession. “Had you no other motive?”
I hesitated. The right answer to that question was not
easy to find, at a moment’s notice.
“If you have no other motive,” she went on,
deliberately taking off her slate-coloured mittens, and rolling them up, “I
have only to thank you for your visit; and to say that I will not detain you
here, any longer. Your information would be more satisfactory if you were
willing to explain how you became possessed of it. However, it justifies me,
I suppose, in going into mourning. There is not much alteration necessary in
my dress, as you see. When I have changed my mittens, I shall be all in
black.”
She searched in the pocket of her gown; drew out a pair
of black-lace mittens, put them on with the stoniest and steadiest
composure; and then quietly crossed her hands in her lap.
“I wish you good morning,” she said.
The cool contempt of her manner irritated me into
directly avowing that the purpose of my visit had not been answered yet.
“I have
another motive in coming here,” I said.
“Ah! I thought so,” remarked Mrs. Catherick.
“Your daughter’s death——”
“What did she die of?”
“Of disease of the heart.”
“Yes? Go on.”
“Your daughter’s death has been made the pretext for
inflicting serious injury on a person who is very dear to me. Two men have
been concerned, to my certain knowledge, in doing that wrong. One of them is
Sir Percival Glyde.”
“Indeed?”
I looked attentively to see if she flinched at the
sudden mention of that name. Not a muscle of her stirred—the hard, defiant,
implacable stare in her eyes never wavered for an instant.
“You may wonder,” I went on, “how the event of your
daughter’s death can have been made the means of inflicting injury on
another person.”
“No,” said Mrs. Catherick; “I don’t wonder at all. This
appears to be your affair. You are interested in my affairs. I am not
interested in yours.”
“You may ask, then,” I persisted, “why I mention the
matter, in your presence.”
“Yes: I do
ask that.”
“I mention it because I am determined to bring Sir
Percival Glyde to account for the wickedness he has committed.”
“What have I to do with your determination?”
“You shall hear. There are certain events in Sir
Percival’s past life which it is necessary to my purpose to be fully
acquainted with. You know them—and
for that reason, I come to you.”
“What events do you mean?”
“Events which occurred at Old Welmingham, when your
husband was parish-clerk at that place, and before the time when your
daughter was born.”
I had reached the woman at last, through the barrier of
impenetrable reserve that she had tried to set up between us. I saw her
temper smouldering in her eyes—as plainly as I saw her hands grow restless,
then unclasp themselves, and begin mechanically smoothing her dress over her
knees.
“What do you know of those events?” she asked.
“All that Mrs. Clements could tell me,” I answered.
There was a momentary flush on her firm, square face, a
momentary stillness in her restless hands, which seemed to betoken a coming
outburst of anger that might throw her off her guard. But, no—she mastered
the rising irritation; leaned back in her chair; crossed her arms on her
broad bosom; and, with a smile of grim sarcasm on her thick lips, looked at
me as steadily as ever.
“Ah! I begin to understand it all, now,” she said; her
tamed and disciplined anger only expressing itself in the elaborate mockery
of her tone and manner. “You have got a grudge of your own against Sir
Percival Glyde—and I must help you to wreak it. I must tell you this, that,
and the other about Sir Percival and myself, must I? Yes, indeed? You have
been prying into my private affairs. You think you have found a lost woman
to deal with, who lives here on sufferance; and who will do anything you
ask, for fear you may injure her in the opinions of the townspeople. I see
through you and your precious speculation—I do! and it amuses me. Ha! ha!”
She stopped for a moment: her arms tightened over her
bosom, and she laughed to herself—a slow, quiet, chuckling laugh.
“You don’t know how I have lived in this place, and
what I have done in this place, Mr. What’s-your-name,” she went on. “I’ll
tell you, before I ring the bell and have you shown out. I came here a
wronged woman. I came here, robbed of my character, and determined to claim
it back. I’ve been years and years about it—and I
have claimed it back. I have
matched the respectable people, fairly and openly, on their own ground. If
they say anything against me, now, they must say it in secret: they can’t
say it, they daren’t say it, openly. I stand high enough in this town, to be
out of your reach. The clergyman bows
to me. Aha! you didn’t bargain for that, when you came here. Go to the
church, and inquire about me—you will find Mrs. Catherick has her sitting,
like the rest of them, and pays the rent on the day it’s due. Go to the
town-hall. There’s a petition lying there; a petition of the respectable
inhabitants against allowing a Circus to come and perform here and corrupt
our morals: yes! our morals. I
signed that petition, this morning. Go to the bookseller’s shop. The
clergyman’s Wednesday evening Lectures on Justification by Faith are
publishing there by subscription—I’m down on the list. The doctor’s wife
only put a shilling in the plate at our last charity sermon—I put
half-a-crown. Mr. Churchwarden Soward held the plate, and bowed to me. Ten
years ago he told Pigrum, the chemist, I ought to be whipped out of the
town, at the cart’s tail. Is your mother alive? Has she got a better Bible
on her table than I have got on mine? Does she stand better with her
tradespeople than I do with mine? Has she always lived within her income? I
have always lived within mine.—Ah! there
is the clergyman coming along the
square. Look, Mr. What’s-your-name—look, if you please!”
She started up, with the activity of a young woman;
went to the window; waited till the clergyman passed; and bowed to him
solemnly. The clergyman ceremoniously raised his hat, and walked on. Mrs.
Catherick returned to her chair, and looked at me with a grimmer sarcasm
than ever.
“There!” she said. “What do you think of that for a
woman with a lost character? How does your speculation look now?”
The singular manner in which she had chosen to assert
herself, the extraordinary practical vindication of her position in the town
which she had just offered, had so perplexed me, that I listened to her in
silent surprise. I was not the less resolved, however, to make another
effort to throw her off her guard. If the woman’s fierce temper once got
beyond her control, and once flamed out on me, she might yet say the words
which would put the clue in my hands.
“How does your speculation look now?” she repeated.
“Exactly as it looked when I first came in,” I
answered. “I don’t doubt the position you have gained in the town; and I
don’t wish to assail it, even if I could. I came here because Sir Percival
Glyde is, to my certain knowledge, your enemy, as well as mine. If I have a
grudge against him, you nave a grudge against him, too. You may deny it, if
you like; you may distrust me as much as you please; you may be as angry as
you will—but, of all the women in England, you, if you have any sense of
injury, are the woman who ought to help me to crush that man.”
“Crush him for yourself,” she said—”then come back
here, and see what I say to you.”
She spoke those words, as she had not spoken
yet—quickly, fiercely, vindictively. I had stirred in its lair the
serpent-hatred of years—but only for a moment. Like a lurking reptile, it
leapt up at me—as she eagerly bent forward towards the place in which I was
sitting. Like a lurking reptile, it dropped out of sight again—as she
instantly resumed her former position in the chair.
“You won’t trust me?” I said.
“No.”
“You are afraid?”
“Do I look as if I was?”
“You are afraid of Sir Percival Glyde.”
“Am I?”
Her colour was rising, and her hands were at work
again, smoothing her gown. I pressed the point farther and farther home—I
went on, without allowing her a moment of delay.
“Sir Percival has a high position in the world,” I
said; “it would be no wonder if you were afraid of him. Sir Percival is a
powerful man—a baronet—the possessor of a fine estate—the descendant of a
great family——”
She amazed me beyond expression by suddenly bursting
out laughing.
“Yes,” she repeated, in tones of the bitterest,
steadiest contempt. “A baronet—the possessor of a fine estate—the descendant
of a great family. Yes, indeed! A great family—especially by the mother’s
side.”
There was no time to reflect on the words that had just
escaped her; there was only time to feel that they were well worth thinking
over the moment I left the house.
“I am not here to dispute with you about family
questions,” I said. “I know nothing of Sir Percival’s mother——”
“And you know as little of Sir Percival himself,” she
interposed, sharply.
“I advise you not to be too sure of that,” I rejoined.
“I know some things about him—and I suspect many more.”
“What do you suspect?”
“I’ll tell you what I
don’t suspect. I
don’t suspect him of being Anne’s
father.”
She started to her feet, and came close up to me with a
look of fury.
“How dare you talk to me about Anne’s father! How dare
you say who was her father, or who wasn’t!” she broke out, her face
quivering, her voice trembling with passion.
“The secret between you and Sir Percival is not
that secret,” I persisted. “The
mystery which darkens Sir Percival’s life was not born with your daughter’s
birth, and has not died with your daughter’s death.”
She drew back a step. “Go!” she said, and pointed
sternly to the door.
“There was no thought of the child in your heart or in
his,” I went on, determined to press her back to her last defences. “There
was no bond of guilty love between you and him, when you held those stolen
meetings—when your husband found you whispering together under the vestry of
the church.”
Her pointing hand instantly dropped to her side, and
the deep flush of anger faded from her face while I spoke. I saw the change
pass over her; I saw that hard, firm, fearless, self-possessed woman quail
under a terror which her utmost resolution was not strong enough to
resist—when I said those five last words, “the vestry of the church.”
For a minute, or more, we stood looking at each other
in silence. I spoke first.
“Do you still refuse to trust me?” I asked.
She could not call the colour that had left it back to
her face—but she had steadied her voice, she had recovered the defiant
self-possession of her manner, when she answered me.
“I do refuse,” she said.
“Do you still tell me to go?”
“Yes. Go—and never come back.”
I walked to the door, waited a moment before I opened
it, and turned round to look at her again.
“I may have news to bring you of Sir Percival, which
you don’t expect,” I said; “and, in that case, I shall come back.”
“There is no news of Sir Percival that I don’t expect,
except——”
She stopped; her pale face darkened; and she stole
back, with a quiet, stealthy, cat-like step to her chair.
“Except the news of his death,” she said, sitting down
again, with the mockery of a smile just hovering on her cruel lips, and the
furtive light of hatred lurking deep in her steady eyes.
As I opened the door of the room, to go out, she looked
round at me quickly. The cruel smile slowly widened her lips—she eyed me,
with a strange, stealthy interest, from head to foot—an unutterable
expectation showed itself wickedly all over her face. Was she speculating,
in the secrecy of her own heart, on my youth and strength, on the force of
my sense of injury and the limits of my self-control; and was she
considering the lengths to which they might carry me, if Sir Percival and I
ever chanced to meet? The bare doubt that it might be so, drove me from her
presence, and silenced even the common forms of farewell on my lips. Without
a word more, on my side or on hers, I left the room.
As I opened the outer door, I saw the same clergyman
who had already passed the house once, about to pass it again, on his way
back through the square. I waited on the door-step to let him go by, and
looked round, as I did so, at the parlour window.
Mrs. Catherick had heard his footsteps approaching, in
the silence of that lonely place; and she was on her feet at the window
again, waiting for him. Not all the strength of all the terrible passions I
had roused in that woman’s heart, could loosen her desperate hold on the one
fragment of social consideration which years of resolute effort had just
dragged within her grasp. There she was again, not a minute after I had left
her, placed purposely in a position which made it a matter of common
courtesy on the part of the clergyman to bow to her for a second time. He
raised his hat, once more. I saw the hard, ghastly face behind the window,
soften and light up with gratified pride; I saw the head with the grim black
cap bend ceremoniously in return. The clergyman had bowed to her—and in my
presence—twice in one day!
The new direction which my inquiries must now take was
plainly presented to my mind, as I left the house. Mrs. Catherick had helped
me a step forward, in spite of herself. The next stage to be reached in the
investigation was, beyond all doubt, the vestry of Old Welmingham church.
All The Year Round, 30 June 1860, Vol.III, No.62, pp.265-270
Weekly Part 32.
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