"Or the street," returned Jack: "mind my words, the prison's not built that can keep me. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so. Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. She dropped the manuscripts and swiftly brought the coat to him, noting that a button hung loose. A vague desire to justify himself ruffled her father.
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