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" "Sir Rowland Trenchard!" echoed Jack, in amazement. “He was alive at four o’clock this afternoon,” she answered, “but the doctors give little hope of his recovery. Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. ‘Never mind where. . I need a white man, if only to talk to; and it will be a god send to talk to someone of your intelligence. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire.
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