Hill sat up on the pavement and mopped the blood from his cheek. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. Ennison spoke at last. This man was her husband in the eyes of both God and man. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him.
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