Again returning to the main road, he passed through Clapton; and turning off on the left, arrived at the foot of Stamford Hill. Muffling up his face, Jack turned away; but he had not proceeded many steps when he heard a man reading aloud an account of his escapes from a newspaper. ‘One of they Frenchies, that’s what I say—if it ain’t a ghost. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. Everything. There's the grand laced coat he wore at his trial, which I intend for my wedding-dress.
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