Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. "Mother! dear mother!" cried Jack, folding her to his breast. It was just as easy to pretend she was watching one when she was actually watching the other. Prison was bleak without spaciousness, and pervaded by a faint, oppressive smell; and she had to wait two hours in the sullenly defiant company of two unclean women thieves before a cell could be assigned to her. “One hardly knows—all the time. ‘Parbleu, but it is not comfortable in the least in there. "Shotbolt! by—" cried Austin, as the captive was dragged forth.
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