“Will he die?” she asked. Close behind him stood the tall gaunt figure of Marvel, with his large bony hands, his scraggy neck, and ill-favoured countenance. " "Loved me! You!" "I loved you," continued Jonathan, "and struck by your appearance, which seemed above your station, inquired your history, and found you had been stolen by a gipsy in Lancashire. She could not stir hand or foot. Horrible doubts assailed her. "Bravo!" cried the thief-taker approvingly. The white cloth was instantly dyed with crimson; but, regardless of this, Jonathan continued his murderous assault.
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