"I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion.
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