He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family. She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially. The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion. She would ignore him. "And there you're right, you may dipind, marm," observed Terence. " "Devil!" muttered Jack, again grasping his pistol. ’ ‘So would you run away,’ she uttered impulsively. ” “I am coming with you,” he said firmly.
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