“Don’t fence with me,” Anna cried fiercely. "Of course," responded the widow, heaving a deep sigh. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. In a few minutes more he had made a breach in the roof wide enough to allow him to pass through. The salt air was fresher than the stale air in the manor.
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