"Poor creature!" ejaculated Wood. "Do they treat you ill?" asked her son. "For the caption!" replied Jackson, coolly drawing a brace of pistols from his pockets. He sat before a desk littered all over with papers and official looking documents. Probably a sick man's whim. He dressed rather after the fashion of the West End than the City, and affected a cultured urbanity that somehow disconcerted and always annoyed Ann Veronica’s father extremely.
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