It is but a wild threat. "It's better," observed Sheppard, meaningly. His vision was becoming accustomed to the faint light now and her features were clearer. He did not move. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. “There is my aunt,” she said.
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