I cannot tell you much about it, but my bad times are over for the present. When the turnkey, next morning, stepp'd into his room, The sight of the hole in the wall struck him dumb; The sheriff's black bracelets lay strewn on the ground, But the lad that had worn 'em could nowhere be found. Sorrows and danger and disappointment she had known. Finger to his lips, Gerald pointed in the direction of the noise. We've made a pretty penny by him—sixty guineas this blessed day. And not a worthy tome in sight.
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