It’s these damned novels. ” “So you think. "Then, by Heaven! you are a dead man!" replied Jack, cocking a pistol, and pointing it deliberately at his head. That turned her mind to the more generalized aspects of her perplexities again. By the time she arrived at the Beck’s doorstep, the morning was risen. The door was too strong, and too well secured, to break open,—the walls too thick: but the ceiling,—if he could reach it—there, he doubted not, he could make an outlet. He shuddered.
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