" "My poor son!" groaned the widow, sinking backwards. She found presently she was out of the dock and confronted with the alternative of being bound over in one surety for the sum of forty pounds— whatever that might mean or a month’s imprisonment. For a long time he stared at the empty doorway. \"It's getting late John. 207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name.
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