"A bad girl?" She put the question as she would have put any question—leveleyed and level-toned. " "Nor Jonathan Wild, I hope," interposed Sheppard. At Anna’s words she seemed suddenly to stiffen. Having now sealed his letter, Sheppard took a handkerchief, and tying it over Shotbolt's face, so as completely to conceal the features, clapped his hat upon his head, and pushed it over his brows. “Here we are, living in the same suburb,” he began.
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