Master and missis have been talking all day long about Jack Sheppard, and I'm dying to read his life. Her curiosity was insatiable, her dreams filled with happy speculation over what hair color her babies would inherit. Many little things had contributed to that decision. “I should like you to come here,” she said. She raised this with the air of a conspirator unmasking, and displayed a tear-flushed face. And so, here we are, right back from where we started. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. She had found that proof. Sheppard, which she gratefully declined.
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