"Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. When Jack entered the cell, she was talking to herself in the muttering unconnected way peculiar to her distracted condition; but, after her eye had rested on him some time, the fixed expression of her features relaxed, and a smile crossed them. “Sorry to be so terribly rude, Martin. She rose to the fire to stoke it. So many distresses— so many joys coming at the same time are too much for me.
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