A white man takes his life in his hands. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. An unexpected vacancy, wasn’t it? Every one comes in on unexpected vacancy. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. From the unlovely hillside his glance strayed to the several five-story towers of the pawnshops. Over an old crazy bedstead was thrown a squalid, patchwork counterpane; and upon the counterpane lay a black hood and scarf, a pair of bodice of the cumbrous form in vogue at the beginning of the last century, and some other articles of female attire. With some difficulty he contrived to raise her to the window, and with still greater difficulty to squeeze her through it—her bulk being much greater than his own. Perhaps once it had desired some other human being intolerably.
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