"Jack Sheppard's mother," answered the little girl, dejectedly; "she has brought a basket of eggs from Willesden, and some flowers for you. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. \" He commented heartily, wiping the sweat from his brow with his hand. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations.
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