"What weight are these irons?" asked Jonathan, coolly addressing one of the partners. It did not matter in the least what name the young fellow was travelling under; all James Boyle O'Higgins wanted was the letter H. Why, that boy could hide for thirty years—without the girl. “John, don’t!” she cried. You were pointed out to me at—a few nights ago. They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other.
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