"What do you think of your nephew, Sir Rowland?" whispered Jonathan, who sat with his back towards Thames, so that his features were concealed from the youth's view. “Well, I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. Shame and electricity coursed through her veins, flowing directly from him in a flash flood. Perhaps the day of her recompense was at hand. Throwing the blanket over his left arm and shouldering the iron bar, he again clambered up the chimney; regained the Red Room; hurried along the first passage; crossed the Chapel; threaded the entry to the Lower Leads; and, in less than ten minutes after quitting the Castle, had reached the northern extremity of the prison. He was painfully in earnest, too. Profoundly.
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