Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. When she awoke, the sun was high in Heaven. ‘To read and write, of course, and to sew. I bear the marks of some of them about me still," he continued, taking off his wig, and laying bare a bald skull, covered with cicatrices and plates of silver. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful.
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