All at once her heart began to patter queerly. "You are all right?"—anxiously. “Ssh!” said her mother, and then added, “A little natural feeling, dear. "What's that to you?" retorted Jack, surlily. Springing upon the box, he told the coachman to make the best of his way to Saint Giles's. ” He released her hand and talked in eager undertones against an auditory background of urgency and distress. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved.
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