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Updated: May 26, 2025
Who is this approaching so slowly and majestically, this square bundle of petticoat and cloak, this road-waggon of a woman? It is, it must be Mrs. It can be nobody else. Mrs. It had been anciently a great manor-farm or court-house, and was still a stately, substantial building, whose lofty halls and spacious chambers gave an air of grandeur to the common offices to which they were applied.
"Julia Constantine an odd name," he muttered. "Do you know anything of her parentage?" "Nothing except that her father was a labourer at Sheba, the manor-farm. The family has belonged to this parish for generations. I believe July is the last of them." He faced round upon her again. "Sand, did you say? That's a strange thing to remember. How does sand come into your mind? Think, now."
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