"Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. "You are a paragon of prudence and discretion," rejoined the woollen-draper, drawing his chair closer to hers. There you will be, in an inner temple. And, incidentally, check on that unfortunate young fellow Kimble. Until the last few months.
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