So he shut his eyes. “Yes, I remember you now. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. Spurlock: 'tis Roundhead, sure enough. With some difficulty he contrived to raise her to the window, and with still greater difficulty to squeeze her through it—her bulk being much greater than his own. Absolutely. She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones.
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