He would talk to Spurlock, but from the bench; as a judge, not as a chagrined lover. At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. She heard the shower running and looked at his floor. The easel and palette having been packed up, and the canvass carefully removed by Austin, the party took leave of the prisoner, who was so much abstracted that he scarcely noticed their departure.
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