"Oh, Mr. Phineas, let me do something for you," said the poor woman.
"You have not had a bit of anything all day. Let me get you just a
cup of tea and a chop."
In truth he had dined when the judges went out to their lunch,--dined
as he had been wont to dine since the trial had been commenced,--and
wanted nothing. She might bring him tea, he said, if she would leave
him for an hour. And then at last he was alone. He stood up in the
middle of the room, stretching forth his hands, and putting one
first to his breast and then to his brow, feeling himself as though
doubting his own identity. Could it be that the last week had been
real,--that everything had not been a dream? Had he in truth been
suspected of a murder and tried for his life? And then he thought of
him who had been murdered, of Mr. Bonteen, his enemy. Was he really
gone,--the man who the other day was to have been Chancellor of
the Exchequer,--the scornful, arrogant, loud, boastful man? He had
hardly thought of Mr. Bonteen before, during these weeks of his own
incarceration.
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