Through all this flutter of novelty there came and went a solicitous, preoccupied, almost depressed figure. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. In another minute, the tramp of horses' feet told that the perpetrators of the outrage had effected their escape. No doubt that was due to his helplessness. "Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack.
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