Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. I’ve got a streak of male. And this clear-visioned child had comprehended that only half the rogues were really ill. But no more of that. “A wonderful piece of work,” he declared. From this sorrowful state he was aroused by a loud derisive whistle, followed by a still louder laugh; and, looking up, he beheld the impudent countenance of Jack Sheppard immediately before him.
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