She propped a pillow against his padded headboard and sat herself into a stiff upright position, legs expertly crossed. My death, probably. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation. Perhaps the day of her recompense was at hand. Here she seems to have developed into a brilliant woman with more character and steadfastness than I should ever have given her credit for.
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