"Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. And, if it had not been for a taste for plotting, which was continually getting him into scrapes, he might have been accounted a respectable member of society. Down on me luck, I was, and they took me in. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap.
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