"Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. I am apparently a beast, a pig and an imbecile, too, if memory serves me. He wanted to put on his overcoat and come after you and look for you—in London. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. She started forward. ‘I broke in.
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