Occasionally he would lean back and stare at the window which gave upon the sea. “Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness. The massive door was unlocked, and they entered the cell. He was a manly man, free from any strong maternal strain, and he had loved his dark-eyed, dainty bright-colored, and active little wife with a real vein of passion in his sentiment. At the bottom of the trunk was a large manila envelope, unmarked. Goodbye. Sir Montacute had three children—two daughters and yourself. “How has the world taken it?” he asked.
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