It was the grand nursery of vice. “I thought you weren’t keeping up to the mark. Father— dead. Words of encouragement and sympathy were addressed to Jack, who, as he looked around, beheld many a friendly glance fixed upon him. It seems only yesterday that she was running down the Avenue, all hair and legs. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors.
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