“I am afraid,” she answered, “that one’s friends can judge only of the externals, and the things which matter, the things inside are realized only by oneself— stop. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. "The worst house in the neighbourhood—the constant haunt of reprobates and thieves," groaned Wood. Of Jack Sheppard or the assailants they could not discover a single trace. It slid off flimsily.
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