Sheppard. He paid the cab, and turned to follow her. On examination it proved to be a flat bar of iron, nearly a yard in length, and more than an inch square. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed.
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