JACK SHEPPARD. It must be the dawn creeping in. ‘Parbleu,’ came indignantly from the lady. Because of the Dance. After the usual laconic greetings, he drew him on one side. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. It was supposed he was drowned in crossing the river, as his body had never been found. She began at once a hasty readjustment of her hair, while Ramage parleyed with inaudible interrogations.
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