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Updated: June 17, 2025
"Good-by," he said; "I'll come to see you some day in Coniston." That evening, after Cynthia had gone to bed, William Wetherell sat down at Jonah Winch's desk in the rear of the store to gaze at a blank sheet of paper until the Muses chose to send him subject matter for his weekly letter to the Guardian.
Frank was standing, and the old man was trying to find Winch's wound, in order to prevent his bleeding to death while they were carrying him out, when the report of a rifle sounded, seemingly quite near, and a bullet passed with a swift vehement buzz close by their ears. At the instant Frank felt something like a quick tap or jerk on his arm.
He was in this wrestle, under a placid demeanour, for several days, hearing the shouts of Whitechapel Kit's victory, and hearing of Sarah Winch's anxiety on account of her sister Madge; unaffected by sounds of joy or grief, in his effort to produce a supple English, with Baden's Madonna for sole illumination of his darkness.
As the winter wore on, and March town meeting approached, strange rumors of a Democratic ticket began to drift into Jonah Winch's store, a Democratic ticket headed by Fletcher Bartlett, of all men, as chairman of the board.
Frank was already moving off quite as rapidly, but in the opposite direction. He plunged once more into the swamp, and returned to the spot where Jack had fallen. The battle was raging beyond; the troops had passed on; the ground was deserted. But there lay Winch's gun; with his cartridge-box beside it. Near by was Ellis's piece, abandoned where it had fallen.
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