Their conversation became stilted. He had chosen his time well. The clanking of chains, the grating of locks, and the rumbling of bolts must have been music in Jonathan's ears, so much pains did he take to subject himself to such sounds. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. Fortescue?” “At your service. “David Courtlaw!” she repeated.
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