As it is, I'm not sorry for the blunder. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. Hearing the noise of the scuffle, the tapstress, fancying it was Jack making an effort to escape, in spite of the remonstrances of the executioner, threw open the wicket. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. ’ ‘Not, I trust, Nicholas Charvill?’ ‘Hardly.
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