" "Farewell, Jack," cried twenty voices. A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth. She had trouble outwitting him as he seemed to predict her words before he said them. "I yield to fate. "By my soul," said the sexton, "that's as like Jack Sheppard as any one I ever seed i' my born days. For the past four weeks mirrors had been her delight, a new toy.
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