It was equally as beautiful but not quite so fine as the daughter's. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. "Is she dead?" "No—no," answered Hogarth. " "Wood's daughter, I suppose?" observed the other. The poor things! Oh, it was quite dreadful. Only in the sunshine; they would not answer my whistle on cloudy days. The fact that it was her trusted friend making illicit love to her remained, in spite of all her effort, an insignificant thing in her mind. Here," he added, throwing a handbill on the bed, "are the particulars of the burglary, with the reward for Jack's apprehension. I have pleaded with her—no wonder that I have pleaded with her in vain. Of course I knew all about him years ago, and he is exactly like everybody’s description of him.
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