Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. Even there a woman never gets a fair chance. "Allow him that small grace," cried Wood. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. The Master of the Mint. I'll put a brace of dogs on your track, who'll soon hunt you down.
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