"Rowland," she said, in a faint voice, "I have not many minutes to live. The body of Jack Sheppard, meanwhile, was borne along by that tremendous host, which rose and fell like the waves of the ocean, until it approached the termination of the Edgeware Road. Besides, it was under false pretences. Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. And not a worthy tome in sight.
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