They had cried a little, both. With this view, he hurried to the spot where he had left the post-chaise, and found it drawn up at the road-side, the postilion dismounted, and in charge of a couple of farming-men. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun. “Let’s go home. " "I know not how it is," sighed Darrell, "but I feel an unaccountable misgiving at quitting this place. Trifle useful?" he added, slipping a few gold pieces into Jack's hand. ‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor.
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