There were so many things about her which he could not understand. She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. Stanley, whose family had been by any reckoning inconsiderable—to use the kindliest term. Through this confusion the carpenter struggled on;—now ascending, now descending the different mountains of rubbish that beset his path, at the imminent peril of his life and limbs, until he arrived in Fleet Street. He had not addressed to her even the most ordinary courtesy of fellow travellers; she doubted that he was even aware of her existence. Had he been sick in the mind when he had done this damnable thing? It did not seem possible, for he could recall clearly all he had said and done; there were no blank spaces to give him one straw of excuse. ‘How happy for you that Valade came to take you away from France,’ he said encouragingly, adding with one of those intimate looks, ‘Happy for me, too. For the love of Heaven, Jack, don't move!—Don't alter a muscle, if you can help it.
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