"Do not steel your heart against him, dear Thames," interposed Winifred. Wagstaff. Her tone was hoarse with passion. She is your sister, and God knows I wish her none. There stood John and Mr. Promise me. "What for?" rejoined Quilt, evasively. The doctor expected her to seize upon the subtle inference that there was something furtive, even criminal, in the manner the patient set this obligation upon humanity at large, to look after him in the event of his death. She was sorry to find Ramage a little disposed to be melancholy. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks.
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