Don’t think it was anything better than fever—or a bit beautiful. Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. And, if Rachel had not carried a candle, the room would have been plunged in total darkness.
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