ToC That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green. "My sister the wife of one condemned felon! the parent of another! It cannot be. Which are you—Valade or Charvill? Or, no, let me guess. Her father held some printed document in his hand, and appeared not to observe her entry. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest.
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