Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. She gained her room, and slammed her door and locked it as though she feared violence and pursuit. I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years. A vein of conviction mingled with his burlesque.
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