With this view, he hurried to the spot where he had left the post-chaise, and found it drawn up at the road-side, the postilion dismounted, and in charge of a couple of farming-men. “I’ve been following you for many years. ‘You will please to tell this—this idiot to release me. "Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son. Her cheeks were the colour of chalk, her eyes were filled with terror.
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