A wooden balcony in one of the adjoining houses was thronged with ladies, all of whom appeared to take a lively interest in the scene, and to be full of commiseration for the criminal, not, perhaps, unmixed with admiration of his appearance. " Lady Trafford sighed deeply. " "Why, what'll you do?" demanded the turnkey. It was Jack, wasn’t it?’ ‘Aye, s-sir. Ramage, that iron-gray man of the world, appeared dressed in a bowler hat and a suit of hard gray, astride of a black horse. His hand went to his pocket and extracted a neat silver-mounted pistol. He was content to talk about himself, though in the back of his clever mind he already suspected that she was not offering any details about her life. The doorman replied, tipping his cap, “I don’t speak much Italian these days, not since my mother died. Yet either the rest or the wine seemed already to have done him good. "Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow. Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an overwrought sort of way. " "And leave you thus?" rejoined Jack.
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