"Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. Too late now. And now," she added, glancing contemptuously at the woollen-draper, "I'll go to Jack Sheppard. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. " "Iss, missis," grinned the black. And if he would, I would not subject him to the annoyance.
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