What a mercy that the blow aimed at her by the ruffian, Wild, though it brought her to the brink of the grave, should have restored her to reason! Ah! she stirs. What was the wench at? Yet he could not maintain this stand off forever. ‘What did you do with the portrait then? Not that I suppose it is much use any longer. “Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. At noon the doctor himself arrived. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience.
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