“It is an annoyance, my friend,” she said, “not a tragedy. He pressed the bloody wrist into her mouth, and she though she could not feel it or 72 control it, she knew she was being made to swallow. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination. ’ There was a silence. " "What is it?" asked the poor woman. A lovely, fetching girl. Yes, yes; that was all very well in ordinary cases; but yonder was a soul in travail, if ever she had seen one.
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