I hold a warrant from Mr. Jeremiah Jackson's double. A chill ran through his frame, and, grasping the heavy weapon with which chance had provided him, prepared to strike down the first person who should enter the cell. Ennison, or any other young man. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. The preparations to meet him were immense, roses were planted everywhere, white and drooping with honeyed fragrance.
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