‘It is not possible. "What's that you're saying about Jack Sheppard?" she cried. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. Then he could hear Hilary breathing beside him, and from outside the muted twittering of birds.
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