"No; I don't think I'd laugh. "It is Sheppard—Jack Sheppard—stop him!" And his shouts were reiterated by the pack of bloodhounds at his heels. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. "Let me go," cried Winifred. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. “I mean to,” she replied.
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