Ennison seemed to feel already the shadow of tragedy approaching. She entered and approached the bunk. I can wield a quarterstaff as well as a prize-fighter, and have beaten Figg himself at the broadsword. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. It’s all nonsense. It was not possible for him to have been deceived.
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