"The poor young man!" sighed Angelina. Opposite the gallows was an open gallery, or scaffolding, like the stand at a racecourse, which, on state occasions, was crowded with spectators. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. Maybe it’s his loss. The entire place was a masterpiece of wooden carving, a design of interleaving carried throughout. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, after a long interval, “if they are absurd.
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