His looks were fixed on his old benefactor. Luck. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. “Many nights I have thought of you, Anna. Too much, perhaps. Sheppard, horror-stricken. A wild passion of shame and self-disgust swept over her. She confronted him with his own double-standard. Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter. It was not without considerable demur and delay on the part of Sharples that the carpenter and his companion could gain admittance to the round-house. This way, Sir Rowland. My death, probably. Shall we turn back?" "And disappoint Mr.
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