She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. Jack was lying so still, for a moment she panicked. "Oh!" she gasped. "Look at these fetters," returned Thames, holding up his manacled wrists; "they were put on by my uncle's command. In after years you can return to your own country—to your friends. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. A shudder rippled across his shoulders.
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