To-night she had a curious feeling that she stood upon the threshold of some change. How Jack Sheppard's Portrait was painted. She leaped to a world of shabby knowledge, of furtive base realizations. ‘Stay, Saling!’ The butler halted, looking round enquiringly. She had nothing to say for herself. She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it.
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