Ennison stood still for a moment, swinging his latchkey upon his finger. He had now reached the adjoining house, and, scaling the roof, approached another building, which seemed to be, at least, one story loftier than its neighbours. To write under a pseudonym!—to be forced to disown his children! He could not write under his own name, enjoy the fruits of fame should these tales prove successful. She still had her letter of credit. The area in front of the jail was completely filled. "A little, Sir," replied the executioner, with a grim smile.
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