"By my soul," said the sexton, "that's as like Jack Sheppard as any one I ever seed i' my born days. But he afterwards acted upon the suggestion. "That's your hunting ground," said the doctor. " "I see. Do not let her think worse of me than I deserve,—or even so ill. ” He dabbed with his paper-weight again, and spoke in an entirely indifferent tone. But he seized the chance to entrap her fingers, fan and all, and look deeply into her eyes. Sometimes I think she’s tired of us. There he sat as before, with the heavy fetters on his limbs, and beside him sat his three companions, who had since expiated their offences on the gibbet. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. Ramage leaned over the gate at Ann Veronica’s side, and for a moment there was silence.
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