‘Here you, Pottiswick. Her mother missed writing for a week, and then she wrote in an unusual key. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. No; the future was not so dark; there was a bit of dawn visible.
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