“Oh goody. "Jack Sheppard," returned the boy, fixing his eyes upon a portrait of the Earl of Mar. I am suspected of having shot the man. " "Then it was not a dream!" ejaculated Sir Rowland in a hollow voice, and as if speaking to himself. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. ” She answered solemnly. But that's an infirmity shared by a great many sounder heads than mine. Even her debt to him was a triviality now.
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