The Jacobite. ’ Lady Bicknacre, resplendent in purple satin, and basking in her triumphantly full rooms—for it was obvious that her patronage of the refugees had set a quickly to be followed fashion—was all sorrow and sympathy when Gerald spoke of them. Unlocking several doors, he came to a dark vault, that would have rivalled the gloomiest cell in Newgate, into which he thrust Thames, and fastened the door. The scent of cloying pine dust filled the air as floodlights shone eerily through the jungle gym of new wood. "Coming!" cried Blueskin, who was still lingering with Rachel.
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