The release was so great that she felt tears spring from her eyes. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. The chapel was again crowded with visitors, and every eye—even that of Jonathan Wild who had come thither to deride him,—was fixed upon him. It was immediately opened by a man with light eyelashes and a manner suggestive of restrained passion. "Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers.
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