“Lucy? Ms. Sheppard,—"pray let me go. Upon my word—you are Miss Pellissier, aren’t you?” “I certainly am,” she admitted. And then the fetters, which were still upon his legs:—how was he to get rid of them? Tired and dispirited, he still wandered on. “Well,” she admitted. He renewed his supplications to Sharples, but with no better success than heretofore; and the greater part of the night was passed by him and the poor widow, whose anxiety, if possible, exceeded his own, in the most miserable state imaginable.
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