"Here's somewhat for you, Mary! A policeman left it."
A bit of parchment.
Many people have a dread of those mysterious pieces of parchment. I
am one. Mary was another. Her heart misgave her as she took it,
and looked at the unusual appearance of the writing, which, though
legible enough, conveyed no idea to her, or rather her mind shut
itself up against receiving any idea, which after all was rather a
proof she had some suspicion of the meaning that awaited her.
"What is it?" asked she, in a voice from which all the pith and
marrow seemed extracted.
"Nay! how should I know? Policeman said he'd call again towards
evening, and see if you'd getten it. He were loth to leave it,
though I telled him who I was, and all about my keeping th' key, and
taking messages."
"What is it about?" asked Mary again, in the same hoarse, feeble
voice, and turning it over in her fingers, as if she dreaded to
inform herself of its meaning.
"Well! yo can read word of writing and I cannot, so it's queer I
should have to tell you. But my master says it's a summons for yo
to bear witness again Jem Wilson, at th' trial at Liverpool Assize.
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