Then he stood up and hailed a fiacre. Shotbolt, who had in some degree recovered from the effects of his previous mortification, was thrown into an ecstacy of delight, and could not sufficiently exult over the prisoner. She stole a few glances at John as she stood and played the pieces. One side of the face was white with foamy lather and the other ruddy-cheeked and blue-jawed. The echo of those kindly words seemed still to ring in her ears.
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