Darting down Field-lane, Jack struck into a labyrinth of streets on the left; but though he ran as swiftly as he could, he was not unperceived. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. "That was the lad's name," returned the stranger. He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. ‘From the convent, where else?’ ‘It does not strike me that you can possibly have been in a convent.
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