For a moment, Kneebone had hesitated about giving the signal to Shotbolt, but, thinking a more favourable opportunity might occur, he determined not to hazard matters by undue precipitation. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. Could she go through with it? She must. “There is no remedy, girls,” she began, breathlessly, “except the Vote. I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth. You have the look in your eyes to-night which you had that day, the look of a frightened child. “The horse’s knees are broken, and I am not sure that the man is sober. She fell into a deep delirium, whispering hoarsely to her dead mother, cursing God in Heaven, cursing her doctor, cursing herself as apparitions of devils and demons pulled at her with yellow ochre hands.
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