"You are, Sir," thundered Jonathan; "and, unless you find him, you shan't hold your place a week. Her life hangs upon a thread, and this may snap it. Maternal relations. Glancing idly up at her own window as they had swung round the corner she had seen a strange thing. We were to live in some wretched London suburb. The windows were small, and strongly grated, looking, in front, on Kendrick Yard, and, at the back, upon the spacious burial-ground of Saint Giles's Church. CHAPTER IX.
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