"Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. ’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. He flung open the door and cast a quick glance round. . Business exists for such interruptions. The shouts drew nearer, and lights were seen flashing ruddily against the sides and gables of the neighbouring houses. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered.
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