It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. Pitt?" "There is no mistake, Sir," rejoined the prisoner, drawing himself up, "I am Jack Sheppard. " "Are you friendly toward him?" asked McClintock, passing a fine cigar across the table. I think over all sorts of things. “Don’t you have a wife? Where are your children?” She asked. . It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. But they were too late. The door popped open with a sigh.
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