‘That’s right, you bone idle do-nothings. Though not much passed the middle term of life, he seemed prematurely stricken with old age. "A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband. We shall take an eternal farewell of each other. Her life hangs upon a thread, and this may snap it. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. ” Sir John clutched at the table with both hands. She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones.
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