"We shall never be able to get you out unseen, Jack," whispered Poll Maggot. She heard the rats scattering across the stone as dirt fell into the crypt. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. ‘Kimble, you shouldn’t be here. "It is never too late. So the young fool had not told her! McClintock had suspected as much. CHAPTER XXXI.
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