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” “It isn’t nice going to prison. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being. The pearls were really yours?" "They were left to me by my mother. " "Never fear," replied Jack. Or did he? Perhaps he had found another.
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