“It was very tiring. I thought that you were he. If you'd read your husband's dying speech, you'd know that he laid his death at Jonathan's door,—and with reason too, as I can testify. At this moment, a door was opened below; lights gleamed on the walls; and the figures of Rowland and Sir Cecil were distinguished at the foot of the stairs. Taking the light, they then proceeded along the passage. "A friend," replied Jonathan, uncocking the pistol, and placing it in his pocket. What'll we call him—Rollo?"—ironically. And now," she added, glancing contemptuously at the woollen-draper, "I'll go to Jack Sheppard.
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