‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. 25 <4> THE ARRIVAL OF THE BLACK DEATH He loved her many times, especially in the first month. "My son! my dear, dear son!" returned Mrs. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free.
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