"Granted it were as you say, Jack," said Wild;—"and I sha'n't take the trouble to contradict you—the estates would be yours hereafter. But I trusted to that ring of yours. You come to England, and hide in a secret convent in London. Nay, for aught I know, some of them may even now have got scent of me. Because she states her case in a tangle, drags it through swamps of nonsense, it doesn’t alter the fact that she is right. But that's an infirmity shared by a great many sounder heads than mine.
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