Winter came at the manor. "This Enschede—the missioner. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting. "Shall I never see that sweet face again,—never feel the pressure of those kind hands more—nor listen to that gentle voice! Ah! yes, we shall meet again in Heaven, where I shall speedily join you. ’ ‘I find that difficult to believe,’ snapped the general, jerking to and fro as his agitation mounted.
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