Holding the lamp over her rigid but beautiful features, Jonathan, with some anxiety, placed his hand upon her breast to ascertain whether the heart still beat. 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. Her patience was waning fast. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. Sir John gave his order, deliberately stumbling now and then over a word, and anglicizing others. ‘Certainly this is true,’ she managed. The ruffian's companions took his part. " "You're strangely superstitious, Sir Rowland," said Jonathan, halting, and looking steadfastly at him. “Let’s go.
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