"Is your master at home?" inquired the jailer. The oaken beam, nine inches in thickness, was now the sole but most formidable obstacle to his flight. "Where is he?" asked she, in an agitated whisper. "Winifred Wood will never marry, unless the grave can give up its dead. Half the rooms empty. It's so stuffy—and all that tobacco smoke!" He inspected his watch. “It is, if anything, a little above the average,” Brendon admitted.
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