“She’s going to have some sort of meal with the Widgetts down the Avenue, and go up with them. Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow. When Jack entered the cell, she was talking to herself in the muttering unconnected way peculiar to her distracted condition; but, after her eye had rested on him some time, the fixed expression of her features relaxed, and a smile crossed them. "You are an angel," she cried, with a look beaming with delight. Meysey Hill—never your wife. Hogarth, didn't I see you last night at the ridotto with Lady Thornhill and her pretty daughter?" "Me!—no, Sir," stammered Hogarth, colouring. Hogarth," remarked Jack, dejectedly. A message was dispatched from Florence that she was to again receive her future husband.
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