"Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. If you'd read your husband's dying speech, you'd know that he laid his death at Jonathan's door,—and with reason too, as I can testify. “I may not see the Widgetts for some little time, father,” she said.
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