She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. " "True," replied the widow, upon whom all the terrible recollections of the day before crowded, "I know it isn't. Your life is like a funeral March. His long struggle with himself, his avoidance of her were quite unnecessary. "I could almost find in my heart to quarrel with Jack Sheppard for occasioning you so much pain," observed little Winifred Wood, as, having completed her ministration to the best of her ability, she helped Thames on with his coat. Just as I might have killed another, if he had come out. "She considers her future blasted beyond hope.
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