It's gin—a liquor you used to like. 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. Shotbolt nodded in token of acquiescence, and emitted an odd guttural sound. Wood's advice and assistance, but the thought of the reception she was likely to meet with from his wife deterred her from executing this resolution. “You look more like your old self when you smile,” he remarked.
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