There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. ‘So yours is the rattling tongue, is it, young madam?’ ‘I should say so. Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. How I could have been such a fool I’ll never know. .
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