The amazing tonic of the thought! From time to time she laid her hand upon Spurlock's forehead: it was still cold. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. "Insult you! not I;" returned Figg. At this juncture, and just as a cuckoo-clock in the corner struck sis, Jack Sheppard walked into the room, with the packing-case under his arm.
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