He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. It could not be she who had done this. "Confusion! the rascal must have picked my pocket of your letters," whispered Kneebone, "What's to be done?" "What's to be done! Why, I'm undone! How imprudent in you not to burn them. The massive door was unlocked, and they entered the cell. “Dear John,” she whispered. "I was not aware it was in danger," rejoined Darrell. Nab and Quilt to the door! Jack, you are my prisoner.
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