"I'll go to her directly," said Wood, bustling towards the door. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. . "Oh, God! that I might die too," cried Jack, falling on his knees beside her. "Sir Rowland is murdered!" cried Jack, as soon as he could find a tongue. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. ” She set the letter down, and drew from her pocket another with a foreign post mark which had come the day before.
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