Manning’s letter. Suddenly remembering Kimble, her heart thudded with excitement. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. She felt she had to go on. At length, about an hour before dawn on the second day—Sunday—having spent the early part of the night in watching at the gates of the robbers' sanctuary, and being almost exhausted from want of rest, she set out homewards. A couple of gilt straight-backed chairs only. Her lips were apart, but no breath seemed to issue from them; and, but for a slight—very slight palpitation of the bosom, the vital principle might be supposed to be extinct.
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