Presently she took it up, rolled it in the paper,
took her lamp, and slowly left her room, and passed along the passages
leading to Mr. Willcoxen's library.
The storm howled and raved as she went, and the strong blast, driving
through the dilapidated window-sashes, nearly extinguished her light
before she reached the study door.
She blew out the light and set down the lamp, and rapped at the door.
Again and again she rapped, without awakening any response from within.
Then she turned the latch, opened the door, and entered. No wonder she
had received no answer.
The abstracted man before her seemed dead to every sight and sound
around him. He sat before the table in the middle of the room, his elbow
on the mahogany; his face bowed upon his hand, his haggard countenance
revealing a still, speechless despair as awful as it was profound.
Miriam approached and stood by him, her breath went by his cheek, so
near she stood, and yet her presence was unheeded. She stooped to see
the object upon which he gazed--the object that now shut out all the
world from his sight--it was a long bright tress of golden auburn hair.
"Mr. Willcoxen!"
He did not hear her--how should he hear her low tones, when he heard not
the cannonading of the storm that shook the house to its foundations?
"Mr.
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