It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. Wood did think of it, and groaned aloud. I can’t. When the paroxysm passed, he was forced to lean against the window-jamb for support. A glance satisfied Jonathan that the turnkey was not aware of the prisoner's escape; and he resolved not to destroy what he considered a good jest, by a premature disclosure of it. Looking at this girl, a sense of failure swept over him. The hansom drove off.
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