A young man with shiny frock coat and very high collar, advanced towards her languidly. Whether the turnkey entertained any suspicion of the old man, Jack could not tell, but that night he was more than usually rigorous in his search; and having carefully examined the prisoners and finding nothing to excite his suspicions, he departed tolerably satisfied. It began to rain, a cold sweat of precipitation that was more sickly than refreshing. “Idiot!” She raged inwardly while she walked along with that air of self-contained serenity that is proper to a young lady of nearly two-and-twenty under the eye of the world. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living.
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