eagerness; "did she sell it?—where?—when?—to whom?—how long before?"
"As she told me with great difficulty that she had done this," said the matron, "she fell back and died."
"Without saying more?" cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very suppression, seemed only the more furious. "It's a lie! I'll not be played with. She said more—I'll tear the life out of you both, but I'll know what it was."
"She didn't utter another word," said the woman, to all appearance unmoved (as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man's violence; "but she clutched my gown violently with one hand, which was partly closed, and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper."
"Which contained—" interposed Monks, stretching forward.
"Nothing," replied the woman; "it was a pawnbroker's duplicate."
"For what?" demanded Monks.
