There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. Sadly, the Christmas break came to an end. Lucy entered the house by picking the back door lock with the slim jim. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. But she had not reckoned with the etiquette of Canongate. Then you may have a bit of a chance.
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