She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief. "What a very remarkable thing it is," he observed, applying to his snuff-box, "that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,"—Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he had been so,—"should turn out to be alive after all. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. . I’ve made up my mind. Something is feeding upon them. ” “Perhaps I don’t. But she was disturbed, mysteriously disturbed.
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