He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted. After all a thousand pounds is a trifle to rid you of an upstart, who may chance to deprive you of tens of thousands. Do you know, Annabel, that you are my wife. Let me run you for six months.
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