"I had no hand in the affair," replied Jackson, bluntly; "but I know those who had; and could bring forward evidence, if you require it. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. But his words were borne away by the driving wind. He’s out in Phoenix last I heard. “He wants me to have dinner at his parent’s house tonight,” still looking at a series of spots on the carpeting. Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves. He “went in” for microscopy in the unphilosophical Victorian manner as his “hobby. It was better even than the hymn-singing. Though by no means so extensive or commodious as the modern prison, Old Newgate was a large and strongly-built pile. .
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