. . All alone; and nobody cared whether he lived or died. He was halfway across the ballroom, where the dancing had ceased for the musicians to take a well-earned rest, when Roding pounced on him. His spirits began to rise. “Child!” he cried. Marvel was almost dislodged from his seat on the coffin by a dead dog, which was hurled against him, and struck him in the face. And now, a fair exchange, Sir. She was aware of the body of the court, of clerks seated at a black table littered with papers, of policemen standing about stiffly with expressions of conscious integrity, and a murmuring background of the heads and shoulders of spectators close behind her.
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