This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly. ’ ‘That old fool? Why my brother kept him on I shall never know. 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. A siphon and a whisky bottle stood before him. Seizing her hand he covered it with kisses.
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