’ ‘Remenham House,’ exclaimed Trodger, who had been watching this interchange open-mouthed. He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk, which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it. The loneliness of the place somewhat depressed her. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. “I think,” he said, “that I am right. The Magdalene. "What a very remarkable thing it is," he observed, applying to his snuff-box, "that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,"—Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he had been so,—"should turn out to be alive after all. CHAPTER XXIV.
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