Glancing around his prison, he began to think it possible he might effect an escape from it. He was continually dramatizing the future, anticipating the singular role he had elected to play. Jack hastily retreated, and taking the first means of concealment that occurred to him, descended the cellar steps. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. I want to tell every one.
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