Sheppard returned no answer. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. . When she awoke, the sun was high in Heaven. Sheppard, who had been stricken down by the blow that prostrated her assailant, looked up, she perceived Jonathan Wild kneeling beside the body of Blueskin. What he needed most in this hour was a bottle of American rye-whisky and a friendly American bar-keep to talk to.
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