Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. From the threshold she looked her accuser steadily and coldly in the face. "Is this Jack Sheppard? Oh, la! I'm undone! We shall all have our throats cut! Oh! oh!" And she rushed, screaming, into the passage where she fell down in a fit. It was not for a week or a month. “Are you in the Service?” She asked him. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. The kindly American consul-general had himself taken her to the bank, where her banknotes had been exchanged for a letter of credit, and had thoroughly advised her.
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