There was not a whisper in the gallery. They had it all to themselves. Outside, the grey skies of Northamptonshire cast a twilight about the old house, blurring the trees that lined the avenue up which no one came. Everyone else, indeed, had gone long ago, but still they stayed—beauties, wits, gallants, a decent sheet pulled over the face of each in the silence and shadow of the voiceless gallery.
It is not probable that they knew that their owner, Earl Spencer, had died; but even if they did, they could not have understood. Death,...
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