" "Well said, Jack," cried Figg. And since then, he has openly avowed his determination of cutting his master's throat on the slightest inkling of treachery. "Every brick I take out," cried Jack, as fresh rubbish clattered down the chimney, "brings me nearer my mother. Already Cosette was her chosen friend. You must have repented a little, or you would not have done that. Where was this kindly world she had drawn so rosily in fancy? Disillusion everywhere. I told them lies. A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. The sword, Jacques. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son.
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