“Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid. "Of course," rejoined the bystander, who had just spoken, and who was of a cynical turn,—"the greater the rascal, the better they like him. Selecting a key from the heavy bunch committed to him by Austin, he threw open the door, and beheld Blueskin seated at the back of the small chamber, handcuffed, and with his feet confined in a heavy pair of stocks. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it.
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