"Not a moment is to be lost," cried Jack: "follow me. The evenings were dulcet and soft. Tucked under the writing-table a pair of yellow and gold Turkish slippers of a highly meretricious quality caught her eye. Ireton," cried Jack, in accents of the most urgent entreaty, "before you take me hence, I implore you—if you would further the ends of justice—search this house. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly.
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