“I expect it is pretty well in shreds by now. Perhaps," she added, in a whisper, as she appropriated the beforenamed article, "he has a pocket-book. Mac would have some new yarns to spin and a fresh turn-over to his celebrated liver. But I shan't let him off thus. On reflection, it occurred to him that he might, perhaps, be able to loosen the iron fillet; a notion no sooner conceived than executed. A sob was strangled in her throat. Now, more than ever, it was time to start running. He donned his winter coat.
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