The small bed’s hospital corners had been put into disarray by Michelle’s crying fit. "By my soul," said the sexton, "that's as like Jack Sheppard as any one I ever seed i' my born days. Her eyes were wide open with amazement. Sections and pages had been pasted together, and all through both Testaments a word had been blotted out. The uproar was tremendous—men yelling— dogs barking,—but above all was heard the stentorian voice of Jonathan, urging them on. Meysey Hill—never your wife. Go, and let him in. He was so seldom wrong. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream.
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