In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. Roused by Ben's warning, the carpenter looked up and could just perceive the dusky outline of the bridge looming through the darkness, and rendered indistinctly visible by the many lights that twinkled from the windows of the lofty houses. It was as much accident as anything, but she had killed him. The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs.
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