"Because the prisoner's arrival might disturb you—ha! ha!" "I'll lay you twenty guineas you don't take him to-night," rejoined Austin. But she felt his lax figure become rigid. Even in her own sorry skin-and-bones state of wraithlike pallor and gray under eye circles she was drawing unwanted attention from would-be admirers. But it was not adieu, so she promised her old nurse. And lunged once more. “So you’re the one my son has been talking about. The disgrace of the leaders of the late Tory administration had strengthened, rather than injured, their cause. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. No need to do such things. Besides, I have my doubts that he is so very sick. As they passed beneath the thick trees that shade the road to Dollis Hill, the gloom was almost impenetrable.
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