Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. She hesitated, and for a moment thought of omitting her second verse altogether. It was rude and disrespectful to raise her eyes to him, her mother had warned. But there's a person in the hall—a very odd sort of man—waiting to see him, who won't be sent away. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. How Jonathan Wild's House was burnt down 458 XXXI.
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