"Come to me!" cried the poor maniac, who had crawled as far as the chain would permit her,—"come to me!" she cried, extending her thin arm towards him. A hundred pounds to the man who takes him. It was perfectly legitimate. You know they say, as, indeed, I have just quoted already, that all bad poetry is written in a state of emotion, but I have no doubt that this is true of bad offers of marriage. It shall never be said that I raised my arm willingly against a woman. Then a bit of colour flowed into his sunken white cheeks.
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