The meat was coarse and disagreeably served. The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. "I shall want a bottle or two of sack, and a flask of usquebaugh.
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