“I think,” he said, “that you have found the real home of the lotus-eaters. Nobody ever called me John, that I recollect. Martha had been more to her than that. The perspiration stood out upon his forehead. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor.
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