It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. “It will spoil your life. Sheppard repressed the scream that rose to her lips, and both mother and son gazed with apprehension at the heavy figure of the thief-taker, which, viewed in the twilight, seemed dilated to twice its natural size, and appeared almost to block up the window. ” Sir John coughed.
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