“I was already aware of the fact. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. Then, in a whisper: "But there's no reason why the whole hotel should. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. Fly! fly!" "Do not think of me, mother, but of yourself," cried Jack, in an agony of tears. ” The idea struck him as novel.
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