Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. "Let me go first," said Blueskin; "the dogs know me. Manning,” she said, “I HAVE a confession to make. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Lucy asked.
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