She would never again be lonely. "For the caption!" replied Jackson, coolly drawing a brace of pistols from his pockets. But, when he got to the door with this intention, he became ashamed of his fears; and feeling convinced that Jack —bad as he might be—was not capable of such atrocious conduct as to plunder his benefactor twice, he contented himself with looking to the priming of his pistols, and placing them near him, to be ready in case of need, he threw himself on the bed and speedily fell asleep. “Well, what is it?” “Montague Hill is recovering consciousness,” he said. “This life is killing me! Oh, it is dull, dull, dull!” Suddenly an idea seemed to strike her. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters.
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