"Jack Sheppard's fingers are lime-twigs. He was bringing the sing-song girl to the hotel! The strange cortège presently vanished below the window-sill. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. I don’t care! I’m glad I did. What could I do at home? The other’s a crumple-up—just surrender. Sepulchre's. I don’t conceal it.
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