Unlocking it, he entered the chamber, which by no means belied its external appearance. Her life hangs upon a thread, and this may snap it. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. Her mouth dry, she made her feet walk on, not daring to utter a word. Anything in the least irregular is like poison to him. She perceived that his countenance was only composed by a great effort, his features severely compressed.
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