Marvel. Her fingers clutched the side of the door as though to steady herself. "It is Sheppard—Jack Sheppard—stop him!" And his shouts were reiterated by the pack of bloodhounds at his heels. She leaned back in her chair. "I did not know … that it was … like that!" She stepped back; but as his hands fell she caught and held them tightly. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. “Nor am I going to,” she answered, smiling.
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