The Reverend Henry Dolby performed the cermony, and his wife and daughter were witnesses. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse.
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