Mr. Jack's former attempt to pass up the chimney, it may be remembered, was obstructed by an iron bar. "Your ladyship is far too unwell to travel," remarked the female attendant, assisting her to rise; "you'll never be able to reach Manchester. Her teeth were chattering so hard that she had to clench them for fear of biting off her own tongue. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. She was to be a Corsair’s Bride. "No; it's only a fresh gale," Ben returned: "hark! now it comes. “Have to take your turn,” he remarked laconically. A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. Sepulchre's clock struck eight.
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