“I ought to look up Gwen,” she said. Stanley, and went into his study. He was also, had she known it, more than a little insincere. She was a lovely girl, attired in deep mourning, and having an expression of profound sorrow on her charming features. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. You’ll have to go back to Remenham House.
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