He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. I was stupid—stupid and impulsive beyond measure to burst upon you in this way. Imbecile. His voice had broken. What a mercy that the blow aimed at her by the ruffian, Wild, though it brought her to the brink of the grave, should have restored her to reason! Ah! she stirs. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. “His stipend forbade it,” she said, and seemed to fall into a train of thought.
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