The eighteenth of September came and went while Miss Gathorne lay grumbling on her bed of sickness, refusing steadfastly to believe the oft-reiterated assertions of Mr. Hill that she was advancing slowly towards recovery. The fact was she did not care to get well; Jeremiah’s terrible news as to Lucy’s certain ruin filled her with remorse and horror—horror at her nephew’s duplicity, which now she never doubted, and remorse at not having herself obtained some surer help than his in searching Lucy out.
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