She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. Her eyebrows, pulled down by the stress of thought, now resumed their normal arches; and pleased with her discovery, she smiled. “Hi John. She wet some absorbent cotton with alcohol and refreshed his face and neck. "The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll," replied the woollen-draper, with increased embarrassment.
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