All these circumstances,—slight in themselves, but powerful in their effect,—touched the heart of the widowed carpenter, and added to his depression. He was bewildered. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. A deep dread calm, like that which precedes a thunderstorm, now prevailed amongst the assemblage. He took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere. Old implements of housebreaking were discovered; and the thief-taker's most hidden depositories were laid bare. The coach was slowing down, and he realised that they had arrived in Golden Square. "However, I'll refresh your memory. Sixteen thousand! Mark me, young man, you'll pay it back through the nose, every dollar of it!" "I owe you nothing. "Won't you take these?" For a space he merely stared at her, perhaps wondering if she were real.
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