She tucked her stick under her arm and re-read Manning’s letter. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. She saw her aunt in tears, her father white-faced and hard hit. Maybe the girl was telling the truth, and then again, maybe she wasn't. She had found the mausoleum underneath a broken monument. "The ceiling is breaking! the floor is opening! he is coming to me!" cried the unhappy woman. Winifred's features would have been pretty, for they were regular and delicately formed, if they had not been slightly marked by the small-pox;—a disorder, that sometimes spares more than it destroys, and imparts an expression to be sought for in vain in the smoothest complexion. Opening the trap-door, he then descended to the vaults —searched each cell, and every nook and corner separately.
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