It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in a blanket and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet. Wood. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. You would not have believed me, I know well. I will confide it to Father Spencer, who will acquaint you with it when I am no more.
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