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Cheveney strolled up, a pipe in his mouth. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. For a moment her heart seemed to stop beating. You're in luck to-night, widow. Will you forgive me—if I say no more?” She looked at him with perplexed, earnest eyes. How could she tell him of the evil that drew her and drew her, as a needle to the magnet?—the fascinating evil that even now, escaped as it was, went on distilling its poison in her mind? "Yes, yes!" said the doctor. Sir John filled his glass with trembling hand.

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