“Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. “I would give my life for you.
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