"Jack Sheppard's fingers are lime-twigs. He remained standing by the stem of the proa, his glance roving investigatingly. It was at his side below the breast, hidden by the dark colour of his close-fitting jacket. And in that respect they stir up one another. Why did he imagine she was making this journey to England? She feigned interest. She tied the obi clumsily about her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head. "You've but a sorry lodging, Mrs.
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