Jack had been touched in the morning, but he was now completely prostrated. “Listen, Annabel,” he said hoarsely. “Who can tell?” she said. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. What's this?" he added, stooping to pick up a piece of paper lying at his feet—it was Jonathan's memorandum. She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. "I've proofs to the contrary," replied Jonathan. The Lord have mercy upon you!" This ceremony concluded, the calvacade was again put in motion. The woollen-draper was no despicable trencherman in a general way; but his feats with the knife and fork were child's sport compared with those of Mr. Something in her lack of embarrassment irritated him.
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