" CHAPTER XIX. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. Sebastian, as doctor, was constantly around the sick and the dying. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. She was finally dead, going to Hell. William Kneebone, Of me, Sir, you shall never be bone. It isn’t what I have been but what I am.
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