With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him. Of Jack Sheppard or the assailants they could not discover a single trace. THIS, this glissade, would be damned scoundrelism. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. What had urged her to wrench loose and fly was the guarding instinct of the good woman. Yes, I can readily believe it. Put him in the stocks, and there let him sleep off his drunken fit.
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