"It is Sheppard—Jack Sheppard—stop him!" And his shouts were reiterated by the pack of bloodhounds at his heels. It was her past now, not Annabel’s. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. "And now, widow," continued the ruffian, setting down the candle, and applying his lips to the bottle neck as he flung his heavy frame upon a bench, "I've a piece o' good news for you. ‘Do not say such things, you—you imbecile. But Sheppard was not to be silenced. This is altogether insupportable. “I mean to go to that dance!” she blubbered. Sheppard in the asylum, and take her this, and send her that;—and I've never prevented you, though such mistaken liberality's enough to provoke a saint.
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