She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. Anything that drew attention to her must be avoided. Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. Don’t be frightened, dear. ” “It’s gone. ‘It is Yol—’ She broke off abruptly, her face collapsing into an expression of acute consternation.
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