There it was—to be borrowed. The two lovers sat together, and their sole discourse turned upon Jack and his ill-fated mother. Thank him, not me, man. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. “Queer letters he writes,” she said.
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