Hearing the noise of the scuffle, the tapstress, fancying it was Jack making an effort to escape, in spite of the remonstrances of the executioner, threw open the wicket. “Tut, tut!” he said. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. “I am very glad that you have come here.
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