One day she awoke and he was cavorting about underneath the covers. There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp black leather—the Holy Bible. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. ‘Still—here? Wasting your—time. I dare not reflect upon the effect that her son's fate,—if the efforts to save him are ineffectual,—may have upon her enfeebled frame, and still worse upon her mind.
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