"Ay, what's the matter, boy!" reiterated Jackson sternly. ‘—without telling her why,’ he finished, ignoring the interjection. " "Your own was equally so," said Jackson ironically. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. And for twelve years he has been so; until his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast. When younger, and in better health, she must have been eminently lovely; and there were still the remains of great beauty about her. One could go to him and tell him one loved him.
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