During all their long comradeship he had never so much as ventured to hold her fingers. Sheppard, a matron offered to conduct him to her cell. As she looked in this direction, the thief-taker raised his eyes—those gray, blood-thirsty eyes!—their glare froze the life-blood in her veins. They clapped wildly afterward. . ’ ‘I have found Mary Remenham’s daughter,’ he repeated. “I think we’ve exhausted this discussion,” she said. I know nothing about the matter, but I feel convinced that you are right. Men in this part of the world drink to forget the things they have lost.
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