" "Sir," said the chief turnkey, indignantly. Here again the clothes were minus the labels. What’s the name of the happy man?” Gwen owned to “Fortescue. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity.
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