It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. " "And, so Jack Sheppard has sent back Shotbolt in this pickle," said Langley. McClintock stared into the bowl of his pipe and Spurlock into his coffee cup. "By all means," returned Wood; "don't delay an instant. ‘If he needed sanctuary, it raises grave doubts about his activities. "If I thought he lived——" observed Wood. He did like her, anyhow; he was always pleased to be with her.
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