" Figg turned aside to hide the tears that started to his eyes,—for the stout prizefighter, with a man's courage, had a woman's heart,—and the procession again set forward. I want to fill it with fine and precious things. "Where is he?" asked she, in an agitated whisper. ” “Why did you tell me? I thought—I thought we were going to be friends. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. "I have nearly done," replied the stranger.
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