If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. She turned back into the hall. “David Courtlaw!” she repeated. Her father’s step quickened to a trot. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. “I hope you realize,” he went on, in a lower and less assured tone, “that I am in earnest—very much in earnest. ‘Aye, that she was. Old Newgate. “Do it now. “And aren’t there fees to pay at the Imperial College?” her aunt was saying—a disagreeable question. “I’ll buy a new one.
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