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 felt sickeningly empty. ‘Quickly! You must get up. Twenty guineas, mind. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. Then she took her sister’s hand. Kneebone's 346 XIV.
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