They had cried a little, both. In fact, the reflection of the flames lighted up the ward in which Jack Sheppard was confined. Not for me. “I heard the clock strike as I crossed the square,” she answered. He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. A few short, dark locks, escaping from beneath her head-dress, showed that her hair had been removed, and had only been recently allowed to grow again.
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