In fact, the reflection of the flames lighted up the ward in which Jack Sheppard was confined. The sea was no longer rolling brass; it was bluer than anything he had ever seen. Single pearls— Lord knows where they come from!—are always turning up, some of them of fine lustre; but I never set eyes on them. The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy. In the recess beside the fireplace were some open bookshelves. With the last glimmer of decency he had sent the daughter to his sister. They were the same. "No matter," replied Sheppard.
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