"Off with him to Newgate!" cried Jonathan. Spurlock sat limply, his arms hanging. She had made a bed for herself out of wood and furs. He waved an arm and spoke with a peculiar resonance. The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night. The name of his father's murderer is also known to me. "A thousand pounds," he observed, gloomily, "is a heavy price to pay for doubtful secrecy, when certain silence might be so cheaply procured.
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