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The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. ’ ‘Comment? But already he has made this visit—in town. For the first time in her life she had heard music; the door to enchanted sounds had been flung wide. It was no use. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. ‘You did not find Gosse, that is seen, but—’ ‘Gosse? Gosse? Who’s this here Gosse then?’ ‘He is the Frenchman of whom I told you. The winter of 1348 seemed to last an eternity, but the Pestilence struck in one day. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write.
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