Straw and other combustibles being collected, were placed in the middle of the audiencechamber. The shouts, yells, and groans which they uttered, and which were echoed by the concourse in the rear, were perfectly frightful. “You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. " "Indeed!" said Shotbolt. .
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