“I was sick of the make-believe. Oh, you cannot escape from it. ‘I wish you joy of the wench. “It’s because I mean to send it back altogether,” she said. But it is not your name. Sheppard repressed the scream that rose to her lips, and both mother and son gazed with apprehension at the heavy figure of the thief-taker, which, viewed in the twilight, seemed dilated to twice its natural size, and appeared almost to block up the window.
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