"Not my king's," returned Wood. He drifted in and out of consciousness. Her hair was washed for her also. The brain tires of resistance, and when it meets again and again, incoherently active, the same phrases, the same ideas that it has already slain, exposed and dissected and buried, it becomes less and less energetic to repeat the operation. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. "All good people pray heartily unto God for this poor sinner, who is now going to take his death, for whom this great bell doth toll.
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