"You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. "Stop thief!" roared Jonathan, who perceived the fugitive hurrying along a street towards Hatton Garden. Stonily he had disengaged himself. The touch of his lips neither thrilled nor alarmed her, because the eyes that looked into hers were clean. A constant attendant at court, he had the mortification to see every one promoted but himself, and thus bewails his ill-luck. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before.
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