Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. "Who? Jack!" exclaimed Jonathan. It was dry, as if she had powdered it. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. "Is she alive?" "She is not," replied Trenchard, overcome by conflicting emotions, and unable to endure the boy's agonized look. Wood, whose loss I shall ever deplore.
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