She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. “I shall be waiting for you there, and in the meantime, if you will help yourself—pray don’t look like that. Give me the books. We were going at a mad pace. Humph. The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea. With this view, he hurried to the spot where he had left the post-chaise, and found it drawn up at the road-side, the postilion dismounted, and in charge of a couple of farming-men. Well, I'll have a look-see at this young De Maupassant.
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