"'Sdeath!" cried Hogarth, aside to the poet. He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining in her grief. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. “This,” he said, and then: “No! Is this sweeter? Very well. ‘In love? I? Don’t be ridiculous. Which, if we are not all of us very careful indeed, will be stolen from Miss Charvill. “You are persuaded to come and take part in these outrageous proceedings— many of you, I am convinced, have no idea whatever of their nature. “You’ll do no such thing, Sheila. ‘Oh, dearie me, I wish I’d never told you anything about it,’ lamented the nun, moving to the only chair the vestry possessed and sinking down into it. His sword done with, he took up the bludgeon; balanced it in his hand; upon the points of his fingers; and let it fall with a smash, intentionally, upon the table. But I am not worthy to be any man's wife —far less his wife. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony.
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