Mr. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. "You musht do dat shob yourself, Mishter Vild," rejoined Abraham, shaking his head. I don’t care if you never tell me any of your secrets. I don’t mean I’m not a good woman—I mean that I’m not a GOOD woman. Only promise me this. “You’ll get me to allude to it, but you’d have to torture me to admit it. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent.
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