"I knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the house. You can come back for these, for you’ll carry him to the gatehouse, that’s what you’ll do. What's-your-name?" "Shotbolt, Sir," replied the jailer. 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.
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