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A cold shiver ran through her frame, and her gentle spirit passed away for ever. “I shall never marry,” said Ann Veronica, resolutely; “I’m not the sort. Chapter XI THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London. ‘Nothing of the sort,’ argued Gerald. He was waiting in the outer hall as she tiptoed in. McClintock, coming from below, saw them and went forward. There MULSACK and SWIFTNECK, both prigs from their birth, OLD MOB and TOM COX took their last draught on earth: There RANDAL, and SHORTER, and WHITNEY pulled up, And jolly JACK JOYCE drank his finishing cup! For a can of ale calms, A highwayman's qualms, And makes him sing blithely his dolorous psalms And nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! "Singing's dry work," observed the stranger, pausing to take a pull at the bottle. Even in death, Vorsack was not a man. A deep dread calm, like that which precedes a thunderstorm, now prevailed amongst the assemblage. 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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