Dan rose and pitched his cigarette into the fire. “Never!” he cried, looking pale and determined and singularly virile and handsome. “How can you ask such a thing, Mr. Moon — I mean Sir John.”
The whelp was right. The messengers returned alone. Rachael's letter had gone, Rachael's letter had been delivered. Stephen Blackpool had decamped in that same hour; and no soul knew more of him. The only doubt in Coketown was, whether Rachael had written in good faith, believing that he really would come back, or warning him to fly. On this point opinion was divided.
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