" At this moment, Saint Sepulchre's clock struck six. Pardon what I have said, Madam. McClintock wrote me about you; but all I needed was the sight of your face as it was a moment gone. He had deliberately saved it for last. The clanking of chains, the grating of locks, and the rumbling of bolts must have been music in Jonathan's ears, so much pains did he take to subject himself to such sounds.
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