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Dickens, Charles, 1812-1870

"Barnaby Rudge: a tale of the Riots of 'eighty"

It seemed a place where such things had
been, but could be no more--the very ghost of a house, haunting the old
spot in its old outward form, and that was all.
Much of this decayed and sombre look was attributable, no doubt, to the
death of its former master, and the temper of its present occupant;
but remembering the tale connected with the mansion, it seemed the very
place for such a deed, and one that might have been its predestined
theatre years upon years ago. Viewed with reference to this legend, the
sheet of water where the steward's body had been found appeared to wear
a black and sullen character, such as no other pool might own; the bell
upon the roof that had told the tale of murder to the midnight wind,
became a very phantom whose voice would raise the listener's hair on
end; and every leafless bough that nodded to another, had its stealthy
whispering of the crime.
Joe paced up and down the path, sometimes stopping in affected
contemplation of the building or the prospect, sometimes leaning against
a tree with an assumed air of idleness and indifference, but always
keeping an eye upon the window he had singled out at first. After some
quarter of an hour's delay, a small white hand was waved to him for an
instant from this casement, and the young man, with a respectful bow,
departed; saying under his breath as he crossed his horse again, 'No
errand for me to-day!'
But the air of smartness, the cock of the hat to which John Willet had
objected, and the spring nosegay, all betokened some little errand
of his own, having a more interesting object than a vintner or even a
locksmith.


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