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Dickens, Charles, 1812-1870

"Barnaby Rudge: a tale of the Riots of 'eighty"


'Fetch me the book I left within--upon your bed,' she said to Barnaby,
as the clock struck. 'Kiss me first.'
He looked in her face, and saw there, that the time was come. After a
long embrace, he tore himself away, and ran to bring it to her; bidding
her not stir till he came back. He soon returned, for a shriek recalled
him,--but she was gone.
He ran to the yard-gate, and looked through. They were carrying her
away. She had said her heart would break. It was better so.
'Don't you think,' whimpered Dennis, creeping up to him, as he stood
with his feet rooted to the ground, gazing at the blank walls--'don't
you think there's still a chance? It's a dreadful end; it's a terrible
end for a man like me. Don't you think there's a chance? I don't mean
for you, I mean for me. Don't let HIM hear us (meaning Hugh); 'he's so
desperate.'
Now then,' said the officer, who had been lounging in and out with his
hands in his pockets, and yawning as if he were in the last extremity
for some subject of interest: 'it's time to turn in, boys.'
'Not yet,' cried Dennis, 'not yet. Not for an hour yet.'
'I say,--your watch goes different from what it used to,' returned the
man.


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