Perhaps I've been mad all these years; I don't know. CHAPTER THE THIRD THE MORNING OF THE CRISIS Part 1 Two days after came the day of the Crisis, the day of the Fadden Dance. She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. "Where did you find it!" asked Wood. "For the sake of the girl. You are greatly altered. And immediately afterwards the curtain was drawn aside, and disclosed the Satanic countenance of Jonathan Wild, who had crept into the house unperceived, "I'll tell you, why he can't go back to his master," cried the thief-taker, with a malignant grin. Tears began to stream from her cheeks. "The devil you have!" thundered a voice from behind, that filled the apprentice with dismay. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. Who knows?—on the analogy of “Squiggles” she might come to call him “Mangles!” “I don’t think I can ever marry any one,” she said, and fell suddenly into another set of considerations that perplexed her for a time. Then she put more coal on, piled it over the ashes, and stood once more upright.
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