The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. "Jack," continued Thames, addressing Sheppard, who had only just recovered from the blow, and regained his feet, "I don't ask how you came here, nor do I blame your rashness in doing so. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up.
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