Gazing at her with eyes blinded with tears, he imprinted one brotherly kiss upon her lips. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. At the bottom of her heart she was not a bit afraid of Ramage. There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp black leather—the Holy Bible. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign. In any case, there was no doing anything on a Sunday and Brewis Charvill, his main quarry, had gone out of town unexpectedly. It would have been better had he succeeded in murdering her, she thought. Bring me food, a man, hurry!” She placed the stone back over the crypt to hide the evidence of what she had uncovered.
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