A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out. Turning quickly round, in the hope of discovering the thief, he was no less surprised than distressed—for in spite of his faults, the woollen-draper was a good-natured fellow—to perceive Jack Sheppard in custody. All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them. That is what my mother used to call me.
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