He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. ‘Jacques! This—this bête he attacks me, and you stand there and you do nothing. ‘Do not look at me so,’ he snapped. “No. Conscience drove him to this side of the world, to this bed. "But I dread the effect your departure may have upon your poor mother.
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