At last, she breathed. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. " "Oh! goodness!" ejaculated the tapstress, in alarm. 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. ‘And I’ll say it as often as I choose, you confounded impertinent wench! Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m your grandfather, girl.
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