Manning’s handwriting had an air of being clear without being easily legible; it was large and rather roundish, with a lack of definition about the letters and a disposition to treat the large ones as liberal-minded people nowadays treat opinions, as all amounting to the same thing really—a yearssmoothed boyish rather than an adult hand. Hearing the noise of the scuffle, the tapstress, fancying it was Jack making an effort to escape, in spite of the remonstrances of the executioner, threw open the wicket. It was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him. When Jack entered the cell, she was talking to herself in the muttering unconnected way peculiar to her distracted condition; but, after her eye had rested on him some time, the fixed expression of her features relaxed, and a smile crossed them. There’s the internal factor as well as the external. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. ” “Not in the least,” Anna answered calmly.
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