This done, she waited at the side of the bed; but he gave no sign that he was conscious of her nearness. “Then why the devil,” he demanded, “do you let me stand you dinners and the opera—and why do you come to a cabinet particuliar with me?” He became radiant with anger. We dressed it in a little music. “I’m so glad you’re here, Peter,” she said. She was bathed in turbid water that had already been used. Her finger-nails dug into her flesh. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. .
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