"Jack," exclaimed the widow, starting up and drawing back the curtain. This person was speedily followed by half a dozen others, some of whom carried flambeaux. “My child, I do not wish. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered. He knew she was out there, he could feel it. The owner was at the door unhooking a few articles of wearing apparel which he had exposed outside for sale. Oaths exploded like shells from a battery in full fire, accompanied by threats of direst vengeance against the individuals who had maltreated them. In a voice husky with suppressed despair, she answered. He is in Newgate. "She has flown up stairs," replied the widow. Best assured of that. It was not a long prayer. She went further: she doubted that he was fully conscious of where he was.
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