She was nearly dead. When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her. “Dinner is served, m’m,” said the efficient parlor-maid in the archway, and the worst was over. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter. Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture. “I’m inclined to think, Stanley, myself that as a matter of fact it was the expurgated Romeo and Juliet did the mischief.
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