Her finger-nails dug into her flesh. It had been brighter than the rest, for dawn light had come in through high unshuttered casements above the bookshelves. Now the pig knew where to find her—for it would not take long for a Catholic to locate the convent in Golden Square—even if she escaped him here. I've watched this lad—this Sheppard—from infancy; and, though I have apparently concerned myself little about him, I have never lost sight of my purpose. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write. . . In her case the barrier was not selfishness but the perception that her interest would be misinterpreted, naturally. "I generally do," replied Blueskin, pouring out a bumper of sack.
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