She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. Holding the lamp over her rigid but beautiful features, Jonathan, with some anxiety, placed his hand upon her breast to ascertain whether the heart still beat. “I wonder,” she began, presently, “why I love you—and love you so much?. I will dedicate my books to you. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. “Mrs.
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