But I was sorry for poor Jack—as I am still, and hoped he would mend. "It is Sheppard—Jack Sheppard—stop him!" And his shouts were reiterated by the pack of bloodhounds at his heels. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. A faint, delightfully humorous smile parted her lips. The effort to maintain her self-control was almost superhuman.
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