She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. Perhaps in two or three weeks. She would not look at him, would not think of him; when her mind wavered, then she muttered to herself in the darkness so as to keep hold of her generalizations. He renewed his supplications to Sharples, but with no better success than heretofore; and the greater part of the night was passed by him and the poor widow, whose anxiety, if possible, exceeded his own, in the most miserable state imaginable. You’re such a strange girl.
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