“You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. Marvel was almost dislodged from his seat on the coffin by a dead dog, which was hurled against him, and struck him in the face. "Who is it, Bess?" "How should I know?" replied Edgeworth Bess. "I thought you'd have got rid of your ill-humour by this time.
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