"Jack Sheppard's fingers are lime-twigs. She thought of an old abandoned barn that she could inhabit further downriver, but shrugged off the idea in disdain. This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation. Sepulchre's church was covered—so was the tower. His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head.
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