Entering the house, he found himself in a narrow passage leading to the back stairs. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. ‘Of course she don’t understand,’ snapped Charvill irascibly. From this sorrowful state he was aroused by a loud derisive whistle, followed by a still louder laugh; and, looking up, he beheld the impudent countenance of Jack Sheppard immediately before him. Certainly not a gentlewoman. His eyes closed. You don't notice the heat; but it is always there, pressing down.
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