Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. Mischief bubbled up in her. And they pay her. At the open door stood a young man in a rich garb with a mask on his face, who was encouraging the mob by words and gestures. She clenched her hands together and leaned forward in her chair, gazing steadily into the fire.
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