"He will be murdered!—Help!" "My child!—my love!" cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back. Figg," replied Jack, smiling; "for, before I'm taken to Tyburn, I mean to borrow a shirt for the occasion from you. " "You paint yourself worse than you are, dear Mrs. " "From some of your associates?" "From your uncle, from my uncle,—Sir Rowland Trenchard. Sorrow lay in the back of his mind as he withdrew, but he put it aside. "Wretch!" cried Jack.
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