Spurling in alarm. Springing upon the box, he told the coachman to make the best of his way to Saint Giles's. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. “You remember our first meeting?” “Yes,” he answered hoarsely. Then, her body still tense with the atoms of anger, she sat down upon the edge of the bed and rocked from side to side.
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