In this attempt he was, however, foiled by the agility of the carpenter, who managed to retreat to the door, against which he placed his back, kicking the boards vigorously with his heel. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. She was not afraid exactly, but there was that about her loneliness to-night she distrusted. Send you the shirt. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey.
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