"I'll gibbet the rascal. \" She fibbed. Alarmed by these prognostications of a storm, and feeling too much exhausted from his late severe treatment to proceed further on foot, Wood endeavoured to find a tavern where he might warm and otherwise refresh himself. “Did she? I’m sorry, Mike. Save us!" he cried, as his glance accidentally alighted on the drawing, which Winifred had dropped in her agitation. ‘Wait! At least tell me where I can find you. She sprang to her feet and stood listening with parted lips and eager eyes. " "What gives you that idea?" "Well, we could find no letter of credit, no letters, no labels in his clothes—not a single clew to his real identity.
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