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 glared at him with satisfaction. When she got back to her questions again in the monotonous high-road that led up the hill, she found the image of Mr. She had removed her hat and utterly disarranged her already unruly black locks by running agitated fingers through them. “You did your best to kill me,” he said. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so.
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