He opened the drawer of the writing table. But this calm was more awful than the previous roaring of the blast. His face was very serious. When she occupied, it, it was neatness itself; the little porch was overrun with creepers—the garden trim and exquisitely kept. Hearing the noise of the scuffle, the tapstress, fancying it was Jack making an effort to escape, in spite of the remonstrances of the executioner, threw open the wicket. But never mind that. She wondered even at this late day how she had been able to hold her maddening curiosity in check. In a sense I don’t care.
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