"I have never been out of this horrible dungeon since we last met," he said; "though how long ago that is, I scarcely know. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. "Halloa!" cried Jack, looking round, and trying to fix his inebriate gaze upon the speaker,—"who's that?" "Your mother," replied Mrs. We close the chapter.
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