“Does he never speak to you of—of old times?” she faltered. " "Never to return," remarked Jack, gloomily. Friday was not a big dinner night at the Beck house. Turning off again on the left, down Seacoal Lane, they arrived at the mouth of a dark, narrow alley, into which they plunged; and, at the farther extremity found a small yard, overlooked by the blank walls of a large gloomy habitation. She turned her head away sharply. From suburbs, from country towns—everywhere.
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