"There, he's as safe as Jack Sheppard in the Condemned Hould," laughed the man. His kind eyes were puffy with fatigue. And all the old—the old trick of shrinking up like a snail at a touch. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. “I wonder if they will seem altered,” she remarked for the third time. ‘And it is not only a question of her identity, but a matter of her life as well. There are so many things I want to tell you, and they stand on such different levels, that the effect is necessarily confusing and discordant, and I find myself doubting if I am really giving you the thread of emotion that should run through all this letter.
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