The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. "Here, Tom," he added, calling to a shop-boy, "run and fetch a constable. What is the matter with you?” Dunster had withdrawn discreetly. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination. She did this to please him. A wild passion of shame and self-disgust swept over her.
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