How she hated talking of the man who was responsible for her being brought into the world. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. From a man, who was standing beneath the shade of one these noble trees, information was obtained that the horsemen had ridden along the Harrow Road. It's fortunate we've no more Jack Sheppards, or I should stand but a poor chance. But underneath this tolerance there is always the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassert itself. As she drew off her skirt she felt something in the pocket, and remembered the letter which the commissionaire at the Carlton had given her. And then the fetters, which were still upon his legs:—how was he to get rid of them? Tired and dispirited, he still wandered on.
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