OB73 The Yellow Wall-Paper Left page Page number: 646 Title: A SALEM WITCH 
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	How different was this meeting from that which he had expected but a few hours ago, as he swung 
	lightly over the turf! A few hours ago—it seemed long years since that happy sunrise! A frightful sense of 
	the cruelty and hardness of it all filled his heart, and a made desire for revenge mad his brain for a 
	moment reel; only for a moment, —then the thought that there was still a duty which he could perform 
	roused him as nothing else could have done. It was not hard to obtain permission to carry away the
	body, and his plans were quickly made. He left Dorcas in charge and hurried back to his ship. As he 
	went on board, the men observing the grief depicted on his face, saluted him gravely and stood silent as 
	he passed to his cabin. He stayed there a few minutes with the mate, who presently returned to the 
	deck, leaving him alone. Soon, he too returned, and stepped into the midst of the little group.
	“Mates,” said he, “you have heard me speak of her who was to have voyaged with us, and you have 
	heard now what has come. One last duty I can do for my poor girl, and I would like those that love me to 
	help me to do it.”
	“Anything we can do to help you, lad, shall be done,” said the old boatswain, forgetting the captain and 
	thinking only of the man who might have been his son.
	“Aye, aye,” said the others.
	And when the town had followed the other unhappy creatures to the place of their execution, another 
	procession left the jail, and walked towards the cottage by the sea. First came Rafe, with Dorcas
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	On his arm, then an improvised bier carried by six sailors, and then two by two the rest of the crew of 
	the Oliver. They buried her under the trees in the little orchard where she had played as a child, and 
	where she and Dorcas had sewed in the early summer. Rafe thanked them in simple, tender speech 
	when all was done; and he instructed the mate to meet him in Boston with the vessel, when her cargo 
	was discharged and her accounts settled, bringing such things from the cottage as Dorcas wished to 
	preserve. Then he took Dorcas by the hand and turned his back on Salem forever.
	In a little cottage on the bleak Cornish coast dwelt for many years in the earlier part of the eighteenth 
	century, a white-haired woman and a man who was prematurely old and broken. They addressed each 
	other as “brother” and “sister.” They were known far and near for deeds of charity and sympathy to 
	those in sorrow and need. The good people of the village in which they lived were not a little curious at 
	first about these “new folk”; but they never spoke of their past, and after a time it seemed as if they had 
	always been there. To them, too, came a measure of peace, as it comes to those who have drunk 
	deepest of the cup of sorrow. Pursuing the tenor of their way, they saw the renewal of the years and 
	seasons, while in far-off land the winds made requiem and drifted in turn the apple-blossoms and the 
	snow over the lowly grave in the garden by the sea.
	[illustration of a dockyard, signature William Tuilen Herry]
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	[illustration of a woman writing on her lap in a rocking chair by a barred window. Illustrator's Signature: 
	J. H. Hatfield]
	Caption: “I am sitting by the Window in this Atrocious Nursery.”
	By Charlotte Perkins Stetson.
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	[illuminated letter I] T is very seldom that mere ordinary people like John and myself secure ancestral 
	halls for the summer. A colonial mansion, a hereditary estate, I would say a haunted house, and reach 
	the height of romantic felicity—but that would be asking too much of fate!
	Still I will proudly declare that there is something queer about it.
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	Else, why should it be let so cheaply? And why have stood so long untenanted? 
	John laughs at me, of course, but one expects that in marriage.
	John is practical in the extreme. He has no patience with faith, an intense horror of superstition, and he 
	scoffs openly at any talk of things not to be felt and seen and put down in figures.
	John is a physician, and perhaps— (I would not say it to a living soul, of course, but this is dead paper 
	and a great relief to my mind—) perhaps that is one reason I do not get well faster.
	You see he does not believe I am sick! And what can one do?