Suddenly (it was before the sun had risen above the horizon) she
became aware of something white in the hedge. All other colours
wore the same murky hue, though the forms of objects were perfectly
distinct. What was it? It could not be a flower;--that, the time
of year made clear. A frozen lump of snow, lingering late in one of
the gnarled tufts of the hedge? She stepped forward to examine. It
proved to be a little piece of stiff writing-paper compressed into a
round shape. She understood it instantly; it was the paper that had
served as wadding for the murderer's gun. Then she had been
standing just where the murderer must have been but a few hours
before; probably (as the rumour had spread through the town,
reaching her ears) one of the poor maddened turn-outs, who hung
about everywhere, with black, fierce looks, as if contemplating some
deed of violence. Her sympathy was all with them, for she had known
what they suffered; and besides this, there was her own individual
dislike of Mr. Carson, and dread of him for Mary's sake.
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